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...
Author - Abigail George
Abigail George studied film and television production for a short while, followed by a brief stint as a trainee at a production house. She is a Christian feminist, writer and poet. She lives in Port Elizabeth, South Africa. She has had poetry published in print and online. She has had short fiction published online. In 2005 and 2008, she was awarded grants from the National Arts Council in Johannesburg. She is not purely devoted to poetry but to pursuing writing full time. Storytelling for her has always been a phenomenal way of communicating and making a connection with other people. She writes for Modern Diplomacy and contributed bimonthly to a symposium on Ovi Magazine: Finland’s English Online Magazine. Her latest book Winter in Johannesburg is available on Kindle via Amazon.
A GIRL WHO HAD A YEARNING FOR EXPERIENCE When we were young we were beautiful. She tells herself as she makes coffee. I’m away from you only in a few places...
Nothing is coming undone because so far it is all good. I’m still here on the one side of the world waking up. You’re on the other waking up with your wife and...
Guys (the guys I like, the guys I fall for, the type I go for), especially older guys, guys in the family way (who have a history with women, who drink, and...
“I think of / you getting older, surrounded by your / children, the children I could never / give you. I would have loved you for a / minor eternity, a major...
PERSUASION (for Mishka and Stuart Hoosen-Lewis) You’re a couple in the crossing. I’m not part of a couple. My stories come out of the light that is shining in...
Once I called you home. Once you called / me sanctuary. Your hands were like a hat full / of leaves, a porcelain teacup full of blue sky… The old woman...
WE ARE STRANGERS WAITING FOR THE TRAIN It is who you are. We all came from Adam’s Eden. Walked down that road. There is just an empty space. I act now as...
There are days when everything hurts. You drink from the cup until nothing is left… ‘How’s my favourite woman?’ I would say those words over and over...
DAUGHTERS SITTING TOGETHER AT THE KITCHEN TABLE (for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee) Here’s looking at you at fifty. You’re fifty still living in your parents’...
So, mother, like Johannesburg, you cut me in deep, imaginative and resourceful ways. A cut from you was a project. Thinking of you, staring at you, looking at...
SONG AT SUMMER’S END (for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee) Eat it for dinner. Voice of Eve. The sea. Mum is the sleeping woman. Hands on the wheel driving to the...
