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Abigail George

Abigail George

Abigail George studied film and television production for a short while, which was followed by a brief stint as a trainee at a production house. She is a writer and poet. She has lived in Johannesburg and Port Elizabeth but she is currently living in Port Elizabeth. 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 fulltime. Storytelling for her has always been a phenomenal way of communicating and making a connection with other people.
 
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 ValentineValentine by Abigail George
(for Ambronese)   The mirror takes a look at my face.    The face that flinched when you wanted to hit me. I smile. I smile. I smile (think of autumn) because it
 Visitations from the most primitive womanVisitations from the most primitive woman by Abigail George
(for mum, dad, Vincent, Babs, Max)   Peri-spinach (a constellation/s)   alongside fried onions. Layers.And martyrs. Stars out.
 A month of SundaysA month of Sundays by Abigail George
“I don’t see why you can’t write a book. I’m proud of you.” She caressed his back. \"I’m your Alba remember. You can make words do anything. You charmed the pants off of me.”
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 Don't tell Don't tell by Abigail George
(for my father, Vincent and Mikale)    Leonard
 Despair and hardshipDespair and hardship by Abigail George
(for Ambronese)    There was a home and a family that belonged to her. Fragments in a diary. You’ve
 The painted birds The painted birds by Abigail George
(for Ambronese)    I’m helpless. She knows this and tells me     to forget this place of weeping and change.    She’s an
 Slow hands finding the car keysSlow hands finding the car keys by Abigail George
(for dad)        The subtle signs of
 You're good at those thingsYou're good at those things by Abigail George
You\'re good at those things(for Ambronese and Voldi)Rapture is the son of Johannesburg.    The same way that Prague is  
 When love is not enoughWhen love is not enough by Abigail George
When love is not enough(for Ambronese)    A thousand-people loving me could     not undo the onion-layers of damage  
 DespairDespair by Abigail George
Despair (a diary entry)My breath is caught inthe downward arch ofthe wave’s-length. I feel smotheredby the wise heat of the
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