Yrsa Daley-Ward's Blog, page 21
September 27, 2013
INTERVIEW SCHON MAGAZINE
On 29th October 2013, the talented Yrsa Daley-Ward releases her brand new collection of short stories titled ‘On Snakes and Other Stories’. Hailing from a dual heritage background of Nigerian and Jamaican decent -and raised by her Seventh Day Adventist grandparents in the North of England- her intriguing experiences are fused together to create a world of intrigue, intimacy and poignancy. Now, in her first book of short stories, we’re introduced to an array of fascinating characters as they make their way through various adventures. We caught up with the actor/writer/poet, to find out a bit more. - See more at: http://schonmagazine.com/2013/09/books-an-interview-with-writer-ysra-daley-ward/#sthash.IC9wQhNT.dpuf
September 26, 2013
Women who were brought up devout and fearful
Get stirred, like anyone else.
Want men. Want
other...
Women who were brought up devout and fearful
Get stirred, like anyone else.
Want men. Want
other women. Stink under the arms at the end of
the day. Get
that all too familiar mix of fear and discontent
in the night. Want to do the things
that they ‘Must Not Do.’
Those dirty, bloody attractive things.
on forced 'fun'
If he is a friend… well, kind of a friend, with a soft well meaning face. If you are wrapped in the pink dressing gown with the hood. If your skin is still wet. If he can smell the soap suds you were too rushed to wash properly when the doorbell rang. If your hair is still dipping with water crystals while you tell him you’ll be ready soon. If he told you he liked you many times but you paid him no mind. If he isn’t your type. If you leave the living room door open when you go upstairs to change, humming along to a song on your radio.If you hear him climb the stairs do you worry yet? Do you consider yet, that some men get the wrong idea? Or are you too busy with the song and the coconut oil to realise the footsteps aren’t heading to the bathroom? Are you both alone in the house? Do you lead him on? Are you all alone in the house? Has it slipped your mind how some men forget themselves? If he asks if you need any help, from just behind the door, do you hide your shock? Did you learn well from your mother… how to swallow discomfort in spades, without anybody noticing? Do you flirt a little. Is there a smile in your voice? Do you giggle before saying, “No thank-you.” Do you try to sound more in control than you feel? You were silly to laugh. Maybe it was that. Or your no was not strong or clear enough, perhaps. Do you miss the signs? Are you careless, at all? Does he try the door? Do you miss the signs? When he moves close do you shrink back? Your no is not loud or strong enough, perhaps.Do you freeze? Do you freeze? You could fight or scream or kick or swear or slap. Is it just an unfortunate turn to the day? Can you really call this an attack? If he gets it out but doesn’t put it in… if he laughs before he puts it away…If he pulls at your robe, if he uses his hands…is he just a friend getting carried away? You still say hello in the street avoiding his eyes, scared of your own rage. Furthermore this was weeks ago. Furthermore no one likes a tease. Most of all, what nobody knows cant hurt you.
All it takes is the right kind of listener and you will be back to remembering you are someone’s daughter. Don’t believe that you asked for it. Or that it was not awful. Or that he is just very forward…bad, but not terrible.
September 25, 2013
"Home. Home is a tricky concept. Who can disagree? Home. Is nowhere. Home is everywhere. Home is the..."
the arms of someone beautiful, even for just one evening when I’m too full of spirit to see my way own home. Home is my late mothers house which now belongs to the government and home is where the head is. I left my hat on the train, is that home? I left my coat in the pub, is that home? I do not know where to go most nights, will I ever reach home? I was invited to heaven once. I was sixteen and and trying to do everything right. No sex and no pork and no breaking the Sabbath.
The preacher said we’d be home soon, that place with pearly gates and milk and honey. There was hope he said,so long as I stayed off the drink and stopped loving so hard and so violently, stopped sinning so passionately. Until then. Until then, he said,
repent.”
September 24, 2013
True Story
said Mum, greasing up our ashy legs with Vaseline
Or that your auntie Amy’s a man stealing back-stabbing, cheating bitch
who can’t keep a man so she has to steal somebody else’s.
We just don’t see eye to eye on much, that’s all
and he wouldn’t stop eating cashew nuts in bed
It’s not that you mother and I hate each other
said Dad, pushing a crumpled ten pound note into my chinos pocket
…or that I forgot about your birthday
but I need time to think now. I’m moving in with Amy
and anyway, your mum cooks with too much salt.
It wasn’t so much an affair, you understand
said Auntie Amy, lacing up my brothers small Nike trainers
and picking out my knots with the wooden comb shaped like a fist
but a meeting of minds outside of our respective vows
And bodies, muttered mum, when I told her later.
Two faced tramp. What a joke.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
Don’t tell anyone I said that.
It’s not as though your mums exactly an angel, either
said dad with blood red eyes
and a pulsing vein in his forehead
finishing the last of his whisky
and auntie Amy hissed, Easy Winston, you’ve had enough
and dad said, Don’t tell me what to do
not even my wife yet, and you think you know it all.
It not that your family are going to hell, necessarily
said grandma, boiling up the green banana, yam and dumpling
and grating the coconut onto the rice and peas
They must just accept Jesus Christ into their lives
and put away the drink and sin and all the lies.
Now go and wash your hands and set the table.
Don’t worry, child.
We’ll pray for them tonight.
Yrsa Daley Ward
EXERPT FROM 'IT IS WHAT IT IS' ('ON SNAKES & OTHER STORIES', BY YRSA DALEY-WARD)
I SAW DAD FOR THE LAST TIME ONE HOUR AND FORTY-SEVEN minutes ago when I took one final look at the still body in the open casket. The complexion was duller but it looked just like him. The greying hair, broad nose, black lips. His expression solemn, as it was in life. He never smiled at us.
The church deaconess was in my ear, going on and on about how good he had always looked in a Trilby and asking what would become of his collection, especially the navy one with the pink felt ribbon. I promised to be sure to contact her if I needed any help clearing the clothes and agreed that the church was a great place for charity to begin. She wanted to know what I was going to do with his good winter coat and green cashmere sweater. She mentioned that her youngest son and my father probably wore the same size.
I had been feeling quite blank up until then but suddenly felt an irrepressible urge to laugh out loud. Mrs Harrison has always been tactless. Ever since I was little she has gotten away with these ill-timed requests because she is one of the oldest members of the church. And the lady picks her moments. When Lemar Campbell died of a brain tumour, Mrs Harrison asked Lemar’s mother right at the graveside for his walking stick. Just as they were singing Shall We Gather At the River, and sprinkling the very first shovels of dry earth onto the casket. It had been a beautiful, very ornate walking stick with a gold handle and tip, but still.
I will not be sorting through his clothes or dealing with anything at all. She is welcome to anything and everything. So far as I am concerned, anyone can have what they bloody well want.
I’m very, very sorry. I really can’t remember this morning particularly well. I am tired all the time lately, but am not sleeping properly at all. I have taken to drinking a mug of chamomile tea with honey or sometimes warm milk with nutmeg before bed. Nothing works. When I do drop off, I keep having strange dreams in which neither of my parents are dead and they are both shouting over each other, trying to explain themselves. Pleading with me, trying to make amends.
“One at a time,” I say to them, feigning exasperation, but secretly glad of the attention. “Calm down, both of you. One at a time.”
Anyway, this is what happened. I still can’t believe it really. But it is what it is.
The sermon drew to a close. The final hymn had been sung and the minister urged us all to give our hearts to Jesus. We said a final prayer and a small stream of people clad in their blackest mourning clothes were filing out from the back rows towards the front to the pay their last respects to my father. Mr and Mrs Baptiste were talking at me about how gentle a person he was, how funny, how frank and how good and I sat there wondering why we had been so deprived of the person that everyone thought the world of when Levy goes over and does the craziest thing.
Levy goes over and spits in the coffin.
Yrsa Daley-Ward's Blog
- Yrsa Daley-Ward's profile
- 942 followers
