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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	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).
	The shadow man, the lonely woman, the amazing heart, soma on the menu and the elect-rain by Abigail George (for Mishka and Stuart Hoosen-Lewis)Ice man cometh, cometh, cometh. You, you never loved me at all, Julian. I can see that now. How youfound yourself in Natasha\'s arms, and I w
	Only the faith could have done what was good of it by Abigail George My father called me Desire in bed, my father called me Love until my mind was diseased, and my mother called me Wanda. My father plucked my virginal-innocence until there was nothing left of it, and youth is always
	She's Krotoa in a man's world, Cleopatra in a woman's by Abigail George (for my slave ancestry) Once she was a high schoolstudent, reading Bessie Head, and AtholFugard’s plays, bipolar-experimenting
	Things of the past, things of the future by Abigail George
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