On Being A Poet And Finding Your Voice In A COVID-19 World


“You”. You look beyond the words. I can understand that. In daylight you open yourself to experience. I find psychological gratification when he says, “I love you”. Illusion self governs this. All of this second chance at life. You are master. You are teacher in the fields of robotics, communication, motivation, psychology, education, philosophy and poetry. You are radiant motivator. You are communicator marking your territories with divinity and humility. You are resonant in all the glories of your expertise and the energies of your skill and the higher learning of your intelligence. You are your own true self. I find silence where you are as wide as the oceans. In realms you are intensely present storyteller. You remain victorious of my heart. It is only emotional connections that make us happy. So, I give you your space because you need it for all your faithfulness and progress. You are great and so I must take care of you. All I want is to support your victories. Listen to both the happiness and sorrow in your voice. All the collections housed there in this gifted museum of your soul.

“You”. You are the constellation beyond possession. You are the forest found in all the fundamentals of my soul. You are moving light, the clouds in my morning coffee. I am downhill. Notes are filtering through my hands with the beckoning movement of light. I imagine that they have lungs. I imagine the voice that runs through the bloodline of this world, the voice inherent in the volcanic rock found at the edge of the world. I put a stamp on it, on this and send it to you. I have all these domestic agreements this morning. It has become the custom for all of us. Nothing is bleak anymore to me. You are electric. I fall silent. I think of all these images. The bright mornings in sickness and in health, everything that glitters, the epic mountains that nothing can rival and I have my eye to the telescope.

The birds are here. I am heir apparent to birdsong while negotiating parachute and tea. It is dreams that are non-negotiable. I wish to create no more origins of pain in this present moment as I search for wholeness in the quantum leap of the wildflowers.

 “You”. You are human accomplishment. I am falling. You are ever present in the fullness of your destiny. I am falling to you, to your arms, to the exceptional light in your arms. I believe in your love with elation. I confess that I am happy for all your assertions have become my own and you are the fulfillment of the universe. You have the unstoppable force of wisdom on your side. I become still in your presence. You are thinker with all of your truths. Seeker on a spiritual journey. In the silence found in the hours of daylight, and in all the hours of the night I live in a state of perpetual longing for you, waiting for you. It is interspersed with the calling of authenticity on your life, on my life. Nothing can annihilate the wildflowers or what I feel for you. The intensity of this feeling. All these feelings I have for you. You represent courage. I, the tenacity for my willingness to learn. In your love, I have found an external identity again.

“You”. You are class salt of the earth. Night turns into day. Poetry turns into prose. No mind on earth can understand this. The leaves are singing holy. The sun is in your eyes, on your face. That’s the business of driftwood. To love. To hope. God’s every bit of twig and branch. I think of wind and rain and the sleeping widow tangled in a web. I think of the morning avalanche in my soul. People feel alone in different ways. The agenda of our survival marks us out to be chapters. My destiny is waiting. Your destiny is waiting. Where would you like me to begin. You are clothed in the praise of the creator.

This is what Tuesdays means to me. Wakefulness and reconciliation. The daylight becomes selective memory in the morning and sorrow has its own philosophy. Rain leaves me speechless like the narrative of love.

Smile but not at me but at the origin of gravity, at the thought which becomes an afterthought. In that still voice of God comes the poetry in the vain kitchen. For the handsome man he is a snow jewel but the female poet has grace. She has the hopes and fears, dreams and goals of a woman reading, an anticipatory innocent antelope stalling for time, judgement for the mountain, she stands in a valley and this is how all her yesterdays began. Even her smile is an illusion. Does it greet her eyes or is it more reflective, more introspective. She only wants to have what she cannot have. The psychological framework of the sun.

“You”. I think of your conscious intention. You call it what you want.

The awareness, intuition and communication of your belief system.

You’re my spiritual teacher. You teach me things I want to know. You have shown me that there is more to this physical reality. I speak to the vision in you. You will define societies some day with your vision. Happiness is being with you, your every response to me, your influence and you’re my world, my totality. The man is daring and inspiring, insightful and commanding of awe in the woman with his perspective. The man is a pioneer in his field. You are the many things I love about theory. You’re my peak, and at this peak all my fears vanish. Your philosophy belongs to my true self now. You are always present in my reality. The man has dreams. The woman calls them visions. If I could stay just here. He has the confidence of a bold leader and the expertise of a scientist, this visionary thinker, thought leader of a man. The man is complex. The man is prophet. The woman is more holistic in her vision. She senses things almost instinctively. The man looks at her with adoration in her eyes. She gazes upon him with awe. Their love story becomes a society. Their happiness psychological then spiritual. The woman becomes a vision in their infatuation. The man   wins her over with his view of the world around him and turns into a born success, a philosopher and the woman’s unhappy childhood turns out to have been a blessing in disguise because she is the poet in the philosopher’s treatise. She watches from afar how her past becomes a shell of water that gives life to resurrected water in wild places.

Abigail George
Abigail George
Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominated shortlisted and longlisted poet Abigail George is a recipient of four writing grants from the National Arts Council, the Centre for Book and ECPACC. She briefly studied film, writes for The Poet, is an editor at MMAP and Contributing Writer at African Writer. She is a blogger, essayist, writer of several short stories, novellas and has ventured out to write for film with two projects in development . She was recently interviewed for Sentinel, and the BBC.


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