IRA MATH­UR

Gilberte Farah O’Sul­li­van (22/12/1971–25/1 2026) was a Trinidad-born po­et, ed­u­cat­ed in Trinidad, the UK, and the US, with an MFA in Cre­ative Fic­tion from the Uni­ver­si­ty of the West In­dies. Her work was pub­lished across the Caribbean, North Amer­i­ca, the UK and Aus­tralia. On Jan­u­ary 25, 2026, she died of a stroke in Brighton, sur­round­ed by her three chil­dren, Rhi­an­non (22), Sinead (Max) (19) and Conor (15). This trib­ute is of­fered by her col­leagues, writ­ers and po­ets, in memo­r­i­al.

An­tho­ny V Capildeo

Au­thor of Mea­sures of Ex­pa­tri­a­tion; win­ner of the For­ward Prize

Ten years pass like a blink for the liv­ing. It hurts to think of Gilberte in terms of “for­ev­er”. That is how you re­mem­ber some­one who has gone; but she is gone, and this is where we are. We are where she is not.

Gilberte, for­ev­er, is stand­ing tempt­ing the gods in my moth­er’s porch, Pentheus to my Diony­sus in our lo­cal ver­sion of Eu­ripi­des’ Bac­chae, as dozens of friends over­run the gar­den, in­stalling pa­per an­i­mals, mak­ing po­lit­i­cal col­lage on the din­ing ta­ble, wav­ing fronds on the dri­ve­way, read­ing an­cient Greek in the liv­ing room, smear­ing paint un­der their claws.

Gilberte, for­ev­er, talk­ing sweet­ly to our band­mates in Bel­mont Ex­ot­ic Styl­ish Sailors mas camp, throw­ing an arm in­to the air and scat­ter­ing emer­ald light, cross­ing the stage.

Gilberte, for­ev­er, plan­ning out po­ems, nov­els, gaz­ing pen­sive­ly un­der the jumbie bead tree; want­i­ng to share, want­i­ng plen­ty, to make life beau­ti­ful; keep­ing the ve­hi­cle steady and her eyes on the road, though con­fu­sion is hap­pen­ing. Gilberte, for­ev­er, at Christ­mas, lean­ing out from Ira’s mez­za­nine, in full flow and pow­er, recit­ing to my moth­er and me.

She is out of reach, and these im­ages do her a dis­ser­vice. I beg you to re­flect and take ac­tion in the name of Gilberte and all her sis­ter­hood.

Aman­da Smyth

Au­thor of Black Rock and For­tune; win­ner of the Prix du Pre­mier Ro­man Étranger (France)

When Monique Rof­fey in­vit­ed me to a cre­ative writ­ing work­shop in St James ten years ago, I was cu­ri­ous. From the writ­ers, I was ex­pect­ing ear­ly drafts. But that hot af­ter­noon, three peo­ple read their work aloud: Ayan­na Lloyd Ban­wo, An­na Levi and Gilberte Farah O’Sul­li­van. To say that I was as­ton­ished by the qual­i­ty of their writ­ing is an un­der­state­ment.

Over the years, as I came to know Gilberte as a friend, I oc­ca­sion­al­ly be­came a repos­i­to­ry for her work. This felt like a great priv­i­lege. Gilberte was fierce, fem­i­nine, fun­ny, loy­al—some­times tough and al­ways hon­est. My sense was that she used her life, her an­ces­try, the Trinidad land­scape, and her mighty heart in the same way that car­bon atoms, when heat­ed and put un­der great pres­sure over hun­dreds of years, deep be­low the sur­face, make di­a­monds.

I am deeply sor­ry that Gilberte nev­er had the chance for her mo­ment in the spot­light. She tru­ly de­served it. I shall miss her voice.

Monique Rof­fey

Au­thor of The Mer­maid of Black Conch; win­ner of the Cos­ta Book of the Year Award

I knew Gilberte O’Sul­li­van. She was part of a wave of writ­ers, all women, all very tal­ent­ed and all very good look­ing, com­ing out of Trinidad in the last 10–15 years. They came to my writ­ing class­es, first in St James above a gym and then in Bel­mont at Grander­son Lab. It was a spe­cial time.

Many of these emerg­ing writ­ers are now pub­lished and be­com­ing known: Alake Pil­grim, Hadas­sah Williams, Ayan­na Lloyd Ban­wo, An­na Levi, and Ira Math­ur. They were hot-house flow­ers. Gilberte was one of them—part of this hot-house gang of emerg­ing Trinida­di­an writ­ers. She was part of a time. A group. A gen­er­a­tion.

We are all stunned she’s gone. Trinidad has lost one of its po­ets.

Hadas­sah K Williams

Win­ner of the first BCLF Eliz­a­beth Nunez Award for Writ­ers in the Caribbean

Ms Poui—that’s what I called her when­ev­er we spoke, be­cause the poui was part of her on­line pres­ence. Now, poui blos­soms will car­ry a new re­mem­brance. Each petal, a po­em.

Though I think that Gil, be­ing such an ex­act­ing po­et, would prob­a­bly have frowned at such a weak sim­i­le. And right­ly so, as her po­ems con­jured im­ages that weight­ed the page and the mind with a sen­su­ous force.

I met Gil in 2013 dur­ing the Men­tor­ing with the Mas­ter’s pro­gramme, and she en­cour­aged me to join Monique’s writ­ing work­shop in Bel­mont—an ex­pe­ri­ence that changed the tra­jec­to­ry of my writ­ing life.

Thank you, Gil, for your po­et­ry and for you.

Alake Pil­grim

Au­thor of A Firestarter’s Daugh­ter

Wild Tri­ni woman with the red head, bold voice, dry sea­son hu­mour, and who-vex-loss laugh—Gilberte was, like all the peo­ple I met at the St James Writer’s Room fa­cil­i­tat­ed by Monique, a fierce writer. Then again, she might not have ac­tu­al­ly been fear­less. We hu­mans each car­ry our seeds, dreams, fears, and hurts in in­vis­i­ble lay­ers un­der our skin.

Yet this know­ing on­ly made me ad­mire Gil and my fel­low writer-wan­der­ers more.

With all those fears and loves, her de­vo­tion to this bright and burn­ing place, and to her chil­dren, Gil wrote. Some­how, she kept writ­ing. And those words are alive.

Jus­tice James C Aboud

Au­thor of La­ga­hoo Po­ems (Peepal Tree Press); win­ner of the in­au­gur­al James Rod­way Po­et­ry Prize

Gilberte sent me a man­u­script of her po­ems for ap­praisal in 2005. We met to dis­cuss them. I re­gret telling her blunt­ly that her metaphors were mixed and her com­pass points un­fixed.

In lat­er years, she pub­lished sev­er­al po­ems—free-form em­a­na­tions of thought. Al­though sen­si­tive and em­path­ic, Gilberte stuck rig­or­ous­ly to her guns. Her lat­er po­ems found their com­pass point and ar­rived at their truth in a lan­guage oblique­ly rem­i­nis­cent of the Ja­maican po­et Tony Mc­Neill.

An­na Levi

Au­thor of Mad­i­nah Girl; Spe­cial Men­tion, 2016 OCM Bo­cas Prize for Lit­er­a­ture

Gilberte Farah O’Sul­li­van was my com­pan­ion in a uni­verse of words, where sto­ries be­came stars. Walk­ing be­side her made writ­ing feel like a voy­age through galax­ies of mean­ing and light. She is my most un­for­get­table chap­ter, writ­ten across the sky of mem­o­ry.

Ira Math­ur

Au­thor of Love The Dark Days; win­ner of the 2023 OCM Bo­cas Prize for Non-Fic­tion

Gilberte, po­et­ess of the ilk of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sex­ton, sub-sur­face hunter of truth, chron­i­cler of pres­sure. Born in 1970. Arab, In­di­an, and North African blood. Riv­iera traces. In­di­an Ocean routes. Trinidad & West In­di­an. Prov­i­dence Girls’. Po­ems sent off by a nun, print­ed at four­teen. Flori­da. Mu­sic re­views.

Back in Trinidad. A stint at the Trinidad Guardian. Re­al es­tate. Mar­riage. Three chil­dren. Din­ners for five. Writ­ing in the mar­gins. In­som­nia’s gift. Sub­mit­ting po­ems. Pres­sure ris­ing. Af­ter the third child, the di­ag­no­sis: hy­per­ten­sion.

An MFA at UWI. Knock­ing on doors. Hold­ing up oth­er po­ets’ books. Leav­ing. Brighton. Sin­gle now. Din­ners for four. Hold­ing teenagers to­geth­er. Writ­ing be­tween school runs, dri­ves, gro­cery lists. Po­ems af­ter mid­night. Mon­ey tight. Body wired. Sleep bro­ken.

Po­ems and sto­ries pub­lished in the Unit­ed States, the Vir­gin Is­lands, the UK, Aus­tralia and Hol­land. Still hold­ing oth­er writ­ers’ signed books. A mo­ment as lead singer in a rock band. A brief life in­side mu­sic. Still writ­ing. Chil­dren, her heart. Po­ems her soul. Re­jec­tions.

She is pre­scient. In her last sto­ry, pub­lished the day be­fore the stroke, she won­ders what it would feel like to have an aneurysm. A weak­ened ves­sel. Rup­ture. Haem­or­rhage. A hand falls, reach­ing for the ig­ni­tion.

On Jan­u­ary 13, when I hear you are in a co­ma, sis­ter of my heart, I pray. I ask the God you be­lieved in as a Catholic to ei­ther take you or re­store you whole. He took you. Our pink poui crushed.

Ira Math­ur is a free­lance jour­nal­ist and Guardian colum­nist.