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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	The Life of a Bohemian by Abigail George Pale are the ripples that curl on top of these drinks we are having. Mine tastes like dark chocolate (the expensive kind you can only get at specific shops). We’re sitting outside the benches of a restaurant, not ru
	For Jerome by Abigail George Shut the door. Shut out the quiet light. Tell yourself to swim away from the tigers with arms pillars of smoke. One day I will find myself in a forest without men, without huntsmen and warriors, nomads and ghosts that bur
	Waves by Abigail George I am having fish and nothing else. Fish rubbed with salt and pepper into its belly. Food has become compensation for love, the phases of the moon, for a collection of short stories, for shame, for fantasy, for literary revel

	Burning in the rain continued by Abigail George This morning the kitchen cupboard smelled like spices. She was scratching for something. She had to have it. Otherwise the meal would not be perfect. It would be less-than-perfect and she would prefer to have it otherw
	Jean Rhys by Abigail George I can hear his voice in my veins. He calls me his, ‘Porcelain-darling’. Sometimes in my flat here in London I would move from one room to the next astonished at this ‘love-experiment’ I was delving into. I was now once a
	Bipolar by Abigail George Tense, numb, anxious, pensive, I left the psychiatrist with my mother. He wanted to talk to her in private. The magazines in front of me on the table held no interest for me. They were just one thousand and one stories of staring into nothing. I w
	The Writing Mill by Abigail George By using my powers of observation as a child; that’s how the English language, verse, the rhythm and internal rhyme of words came to me, came at me from the symmetry of my gut. Growing up the eldest of three children, my father drilled
	Premonitions of angels by Abigail George Just keeping onFlecked with dizzying introspection, difficult, monstrous yet inspiring new things that bring you joy; wise, prizewinning and valuable old things, infinite and soulful things, alien flighty thin
	At the heart of it all by Abigail George Writing is a fragile gift. You are either born to it, taught to do it, led kicking and screaming to it, become members of creative writing groups and visit writing workshops. It is not something to be tampered with. It is a holy, wholesome, awesom
	Memory work - An excerpt from a memoir by Abigail George We have a mother who can talk in strange tongues. She gets up to read the gospel at one o’ clock in the morning. She sets her alarm clock to go off. I am still awake reading a well-thumbed novel. Andrea Ashworth’s memoir Once in a hous
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