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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	Chant of the wild birds in my throat by Abigail George (for my mother, sister, brother and father)My mother never taught me things (mostly nothings). My mother never told me that she loved me. My mother never
	The tall man, the thin man, the dark man, the sad man by Abigail George The sea’s green eyes watch me with care.I have to get my soul out of here, the river is herenow swallowing me whole, meta lost in translation.Then there are t
	Healing mother tongue of a hungry poet by Abigail George (for my mother, sister, brother, and father)(Wild) visible flowers –It’s Gustav Mahler in June.June is my birthday.

	The most beautiful thing I can make is this haiku by Abigail George (for my mother, sister, brother, and father)Air. Heir can’t be cured –I’m bee farmer caught stealing.Hospitality.
	Water passing from fragile life into sky by Abigail George Water threaded us together for a brief moment in time.In the swimming pool, at my uncle’s house. I thought it would always be like this. I loved you like a beautiful
	Distance lends enchantment to the view by Abigail George Go fishing somewhere else this is my territory. In her eyes (the paper tiger empress) I can see the origins of smoke and mirrors and they feed the skeletons, the bears, beasts, the monsters, the life drawings of monkeys of my imagination. Under
	Dear Reader, this is for my slave ancestry gone forever by Abigail George I think of you often. I think of you standing in the kitchen baking, the aroma of a freshly-baked something, or you hiding behind your bangs, your horse-hair in a ponytail, or I think of you losing all conviction and hope, I think of your relea
	Why you will marry the wrong person by Abigail George
	Looking back over my shoulder by Abigail George
	You must be very tired by Abigail George (He sleeps the sleep of an addict). (He sleeps the sleep of an addict). (He sleeps the sleep of an addict).
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