Now when I look at you, my son, I know that earth’s tomb will come for you, like it will come for all of us. Take me into the light. It has a quality that...
Author - Abigail George
Abigail George’s fiction was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She briefly studied film at Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg. She is the recipient of grants from the National Arts Council, Johannesburg, Centre for the Book in Cape Town, and ECPACC (Eastern Cape Provincial Arts and Culture Council) in East London. She has been widely published from Australia, to Finland to Nigeria, and New Delhi, India to Istanbul, Turkey and Wales.
Her blog African Renaissance can be found online in Modern Diplomacy under Topics.
She contributed for a year to a symposium on Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine. She is a poet, fiction writer, feminist thinker, essayist, and a blogger at Goodreads.
Who listens to smoke? Breath pumps through me. You’re a symbol. You’re good and kind folk. Perhaps you’re a Lutheran now or Methodist. There’s a story here. I...
The garden is an ice ruin. Stinking leaves curl at my feet. The ground feels saturated underfoot. Pleasure here is a disease. You taught me that. These are the...
Rebecca knew how to arrange her hair, how to please a man, how to make an entrance, how to win souls during happy hour at the hotel where she sang to make ends...
Risk is a mistake. There’s beautiful thinking in the red wildflowers of my sister’s hair. The ingredients for breakfast grow out of the kitchen table. We work...
I almost inherited the rain when it came Childhood is brief. It is making me grow smaller and smaller. I see the two of us in photographs. Posing, Laughing our...
Winter clothes lost in translation The throne that is called a tree’s shiny leaves. I let its itchy arms hold me close. Bring closure to the cold-heartedness...
The Verbal Agreement (for the Dutch English poet Joop Bersee) Take this hunk of a man and his buttonhole fit for a red carnation. Take this half woman stem...
I had a wood when I was a child. There was a forest near my childhood home. At night, before I would blow my lamp out, I would stare out into that darkness...
Before she began her day’s work Virginia Woolf began to write painstakingly, yet in a beautiful old-fashioned script in her diary. ‘Madness is not a proper...
Ache (for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee) You’re like a wet taproot burrowing-digging-digging into the ground. You’re flitch, a flicker and a burn. You’re desolate...
THE OWL HOUSE (Three untitled poems in one untitled poem.) Perhaps you’re leaves found in a courtyard. Or like me, a woman who is longing for a child in a city...
