Picture of the physical book


Giant is a manifestation, a creation story born of the ocean. Words turn over and under, shipwrecked then safe-shored. A blend of ghosts and myths meld and coalesce into being, as headstrong as the mountains, as wavering as the sea.

Whether in images of species native to the British Virgin Islands or in epic-mythic memory of the Ramayana, Georges’ Giant sings its creation story. Saints, ghosts, legends blend into one another, layering the land and seascapes with history. With a dedication to land and sea as archive, his Caribbean pastorals are giants, themselves sleeping as mountains, heads exposed and speaking from the present moment. Georges is a poet, a performer of miracles, enraptured by the miraculous. The everyday transforms through its own internal magic: yachts become stars; lizards realize they are dragon-gods. Reader, Georges’ work “is a special kind of obeah.” Come find complexity and deep beauty fringe-reefing this archipelago of poems. ~ Rajiv Mohabir, author of The Cowherd’s Son and The Taxidermist’s Cut

The pleasure-dome of Richard Georges’ Giant is exaltation. These poems are sky-rooted and earthbound, at once elusive and grounded as they turn on the revolving eye. They make a visible music like that of John Clare’s “build on nothing but a passing cloud,” that stays in the mind long after the book is closed. We should, in turn, exalt Georges for returning to us what often passes unseen and may just vindicate our inner blindness. ~ Ishion Hutchinson, author of House of Lords and Commons and Far District

Georges commands a voice both calming and cleansing. ~ Nick Ripatrazone, previewed in The Millions

On an island with many giants, Georges’ collection is a great tribute and paean. ~ Peter Raynard, reviewed in The Poetry School

# First edition, limited print run – $10.00 (Press Kit)


Mangroves / Sea Cow’s Bay

black-winged birds frolic in swampish pools.

The mangrove’s roots rise like reaching arms
from the lapping shallows, their propagules

dangling & whistling like hollow green chimes
over the creamy froth. The crowd of leaves

allow bars of the burnt evening’s light
to speckle bright lines of ivory,

coral & shell, the argent scales
of schooling jacks under the pelicans.

Their spiny, silvery dorsals mimic
small sails that billow & tuck & billow,

their deaths an artful dance of wing & beak,
rust & grey, an eruption below the depths.