Fever Pitch: Poems by Abigail George

Image: Sam D from Flickr
Image: Sam D from Flickr
Image: Sam D from Flickr

Fever Pitch

Gardens of the sun –
I need your fields to survive.
For plants to branch out.

This is the future –
Swim. They do not tell you this.
Wait for adulthood.

Then you will realise –
Backlit bare trees. Patios,
Girls found in Hades.

Barbecues and booze –
Stealing sips of dad’s whisky.
Birches that are cold.

Smelling the meadow –
You will lean against a tree.
Remember childhood.

Swim against torment –
You live with grief. Desire. Praise.
You play Say please me.

Gardens of the sea –
I need your schools of tuna.
Without meaning to say it.

Ongoing lighthouse –
You do not even know it.
The back of my hand.

Anticipating –
The green shoots in those regions.
Vines cry out for rain.

Open your journal –
He was going to kiss me.
He was my compass.

I touched the mirror –
Nothing can hurt your lovesong.
The landscape quivered.

The first word was sky –
The next ‘muddy blue arrows’.
Light. A myriad.



I must unweave you –
Skeleton in the closet.
Slope. Forest. Prairie.

Milk fed hospitals –
Childhood of stars inside out.
The green creek rotten.

I saw a mountain –
Monarchies in your journal.
Woolf’s river. Ouse.

A lake of mud. Grass –
Seeds must be harvested.
Their veins like gulls.

Cool spoonful of reeds –
A growing feast in my hands.
Poking their noses.

I hold drums hostage –
Without even trying to.
Silent winter dreams.

Pinpricks of highways –
Lighthouses guide drunken boats.
Women like geese.

Ink. Cars in darkness –
Braille. Tender is paradise.
Driftwood never sleeps.

Starlight in your face –
I hold coupons in my hands.
They scrape my ghost heart.

Iris for a mouth –
Poppies fire governs the eyes.
Watch this thirst monster.

Look at shattered me –
I am speaking gobbledegook.
Veil dropped to ankles.

We are difficult –
Desire. Dark windows. Grief. Praise.
The bathroom mirror.



A word is a flood –
I nibble on loneliness.
It keeps me awake.

Songs of the river –
They are all grand souvenirs.
Sky the bluest glass.

Couples arm in arm –
Is this what love’s purpose is?
Earth answered. Yes. Yes.

I have maps of ruins.
It tells me things like the time.
I am a sentry.

Men make good husbands –
Not all men are bastards’ with-good-hair.
Many can love us.

I read my script –
Perhaps I have no ego.
It says here, ‘marry.’

I am in a play –
Half of it is wonderful.
I have a gun, hats.

Women like hats, guns.
Mountain air is like your face.
Cute. Paralysed joy.

Hearts are red balloons –
My laughter sounded hollow.
Dance away my man.

Devils. Pain marks you –
In ways, you cannot forget.
I triumphed like Sputnik.

Pleasure is the truth –
Chrysalis mystery self-portrait.
Tables. Apron strings.

All poems © Abigail George
IMAGE: Sam D via Flickr

About the 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.

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