Poems are annoying little things. They line up and roost, pecking at you, until you agree to write them down. — Seraphim George
A literary journey through nature, time & language
in three movements.
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Milkweed for Monarchs
Milkweed for Monarchs is a meditation on fragility and resilience, tracing the delicate balance between loss and renewal. These poems honor the quiet cycles of nature, where small things—milkweed, wings, wind—carry immense meaning. With a voice that is both tender and steady, Seraphim George reminds us that beauty is not only found in what endures but also in what passes through. This collection is an invitation to notice, to cherish, and to hope.
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A Siftly Tilting Shore
A Swiftly Tilting Shore is a meditation on change, charting the fragile line between what was and what is yet to come. These poems move with the rhythm of tides, carrying fragments of memory, love, loss, and personal renewal upon their waves. With a voice both lyrical and precise, Seraphim George captures the ache of transience and the quiet beauty hidden in impermanence. This collection invites us to linger at the water’s edge and discover what it means to belong to both time and eternity.
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Dear Seamus Heaney
Dear Seamus Heaney is both homage and conversation, a collection that reaches toward one of poetry’s great voices while discovering its own. These poems carry the intimacy of letters, full of gratitude, longing, and the search for meaning in language. With a voice at once personal and expansive, Seraphim George reflects on the inheritance of words and the enduring power of art to shape our lives. This book is an offering across time, inviting readers into a dialogue of memories, travel, influence, and inspiration.
from A Swiftly Tilting Shore
A Dryad in Winter
It seems like only yesterday I saw
a dryad dancing in the bloom of Spring,
and captured it, became its lover
when I took you by the arm and led you
out among the amaranthine flowers.
I was happy to have lived for years
within you, years that ever-came in waves
crashing over Summer waves: warm, constant,
making me forget the season's turning
and your waning's inexorable approach.
You remained the defining fragrance
of an autumn leaf that, with earthen smell
and color-blast undoes the growing dread
of Winter, comforting beneath my shoes,
echoing the hush of the first Fall-frost.
And I was happy—drifting off to sleep,
perchance to dream of your crystalline face,
still beside me, glass upon the surface,
a quiet lake enveloped by the moonlight
of another wadmal Winter's night.
Milkweed for Monarchs
from Milkweed for Monarchs
Some mornings I’m the milkweed,
rooted where I did not choose,
weathered by the sun
and violating winds.
Some mornings I’m the larva,
taking in the rugged leaf,
trusting—without knowing—
that swallowing transforms.
I have seen the milkweed rise from roadsides
in July, rough as the back of hands
that know more work than rest.
Bitter runs the sap,
it oozes vile warning.
But still, the monarchs eat.
Soft mouths work rancorous,
ingesting pain to pay for flight.
We think joy must be sweet,
but monarchs know.
They eat what they receive.
They hang where they have found.
They grow where they are dark.
But when they rise into the August air,
there is no taste of leaf, just open sky,
and through a season’s calm,
unspoken prayer,
they see the milkweed far below,
splitting rough-hewn husks,
and casting seeds
into the sunset’s russet glow.
from Dear Seamus Heaney
An African Moon through Palms
An alabaster stepping stone
rises from a Roman sea towards Africa.
She flirts with me, like Isis poised, alone
behind the feathers of a palm,
beckons me to fall before her goddess-glory,
obscuring stars and making black sky blue
around her crown. When the wind moves
I see her porcelain face, lightsome in the breeze.
She poses nude and framed in effete light,
a scene, I’m sure, replayed again
a coquette, catching now a lost man's lonely gaze
over the sea, into the southern night.
