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...
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.
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...
Judith smiled across at Thomas. She didn’t say anything when he stroked her thigh up and down in the car. Up and down. Up and down. Until she felt an internal...
AFTER COMING OUT AFTER A LONG DEPRESSION (for the South African poet Cwayita Hlohloza) I wanted to say this. Just because we don’t talk all the time on the...
