A poem by the great Derek Walcott:
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Sharon Millar is a Trinidadian writer who published her first book The Whale House and Other Stories (Peepal Tree Press) last year. She is one of my favourite local writers, I am sure you will understand after reading the following passage, three extracts from her short story Earl Grey:
Sally is coming to tea, she is not arriving until four but Leah is nervous that she won’t have everything prepared. She has already cut the butter into the flour and is trying to think cool, calm, thoughts to keep her fingertips cold. But in the small kitchen, humidity coats everything with a damp film and causes her hair to stick to the back of her neck. She dips her fingers into the water bowl. The water is icy, the little silver chips melting around her hot fingers. She begins to handle the pastry mixture gently, touching it with the tips of her fingers. She keeps her movements light and soft, imagining a tender, flaky crust as she rubs the butter into a grainy mix. So much trouble for a pie.
[…] She’d never heard of quiche before she met Henri. Her mother baked sturdy pies with tough crusts, the kind that could hold a whole pot of guava stew and not buckle under the weight of the fruit. Pies that did not melt in your mouth but rather had to be cut firmly and chewed with a concentration that brought its own pleasure. She is kneading the pastry gently now but it falls apart, refusing to come together even though she adds little drops of the freezing water.
[…] Suddenly it is 3.30 and the quiche has become a monstrous thing. She ignored the instructions to blind bake the pastry and it bubbled and rose in the oven with a determination that surprised her. She has had to prick holes in the bottom to get it to lie flat in the pie dish. When she pours the egg mixture onto the crust, it seeps through the holes and pools around the edges. At 3.45 she is in tears, the quiche strangely misshaped and uniformly brown.
Trinidad’s fourth annual NGC Bocas Lit Fest is over, but no need to cry! Luckily, thanks to the great Festival Radio team, it lives on online. All sessions were recorded and are available as podcasts for streaming and downloading through our SoundCloud page. There you can find a fantastic range of discussions and readings by some of the Caribbean’s most celebrated and promising writers.
Today I want to celebrate the 2014 winners of the OCM Bocas Prize:
Robert Antoni: Fiction and Overall Winner for his novel As Flies to Whatless Boys
Kei Miller: Non-Fiction winner for his book Writing Down the Vision: Essays and Prophesies
Lorna Goodison: Poetry winner for her collection Oracabessa
Click here to hear them read from their work.
A Carnival costume by the legendary Trinidadian Carnival artist Peter Minshall, also known as Mas Man.
Click here to read about him in the Caribbean Beat magazine.
Sounds from my tree house at night (Trinidad). Listen to the sound of “silence”.
Musicians: frogs, crickets, geckos, beetles, etc.
Here’s a beautiful painting by Trini/Scottish/Canadian artist Peter Doig. I’d like to be in that boat right now.