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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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 She's Krotoa in a man's world, Cleopatra in a woman'sShe'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
 ThereforeTherefore by Abigail George
 Mirrors Mirrors by Abigail George
Badboys Radio Show Ovi Gallery Le Meteque Ovi Exhibition Ovi Bookshop
 LovedLoved by Abigail George
 A prayer for the dementia of the fleshA prayer for the dementia of the flesh by Abigail George
(For the Dutch poet Joop Bersee)    ‘The flame in the snow’, in the field,    In the wild ‘song of songs’ wilderness of
 The tall man, the thin man, the dark man, the sad manThe 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
 On mourning and paralysisOn mourning and paralysis by Abigail George
(for Staff Sergeant Joseph William George)I’m lost, I’m lost, I confess. In a minute I’ll be gone. In anotherminute I’ll belong to the past, escape the present. I’ll be s
 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.”
 The shapes that were crying in the rainThe shapes that were crying in the rain by Abigail George
(for my slave ancestry)Shroud don’t say anything if I changedmy hair, if I spoke my thoughts, don’t
 The Entrance of Humanity Into HistoryThe Entrance of Humanity Into History by Abigail George
My father, Vernon Aspara and I were vessels. Glass bodies rushing through the air. The line shifts golden. Basking in the sun, legs and hands and face turning brown in the sun. The bridge of the nose turned salmon pink. But
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