"Yrsa Daley-Ward is a master of the 'bone-deep' narrative. As a poet, model, and activist of Jamaican and Nigerian heritage, she has carved out a unique space in contemporary literature where brevity meets immense power. While she is often associated with the 'Instagram poetry' movement, her work transcends the screen, offering a rhythmic and visceral exploration of Black womanhood, family secrets, and survival. Her influence is vast, spanning from critical acclaim in the literary world to co-writing Beyoncé’s Black Is King.
What makes Daley-Ward so essential in 2026 is her ability to strip away the fluff of language to reveal the marrow of an emotion. She doesn't need hundreds of pages to break your heart or put it back together; she can do it in a handful of lines. Today, we are exploring the evolution of her voice through five essential poems. These selections highlight her signature style—sparse, rhythmic, and fiercely feminine. If you are looking for writing that stays with you long after the tab is closed, these poems are the perfect introduction to one of Britain’s most vital modern voices."
"Below, I have shared 5 essential Yrsa Daley-Ward poems that every modern reader needs in their toolkit."
through and through
I tried. You tried. It didn’t work.
We went our separate ways, and no one died.
No one died, I suppose. No one died.
And now we’re years apart, and that is fine.
But no one is you. I know that, and it chills me through and through.
I know it and it wakes me up at night.
I know it in a way that bumps the hairs up on my skin.
I don't know you anymore. That’s alright.
In my dream, you say you have been waiting.
You are dressed in the jacket that you left in.
I still look the same; twenty-two, a small fire.
You press your cold lips to my skin.
We still have our northern accents.
I lay you down on the floor.
We smell like musk in the woods after the rain.
We don’t yet know what we will know.
when it is but it aint
Some of us love badly. Sometimes the love is the type of love that implodes.
Folds in on itself. Eats its insides.
Turns wine to poison. Behaves poorly in restaurants.
Drinks. Kisses other people. Comes back to your bed at
four am smelling like everything outside. Asks about
your ex. Is jealous of your ex.
Thinks everyone a rival.
Some of us love others badly, love ourselves worse.
Some of us love horrid, love beastly, love sick, love anti
light. Sometimes the love can’t go home at night, can’t
sleep with itself, cannot contain itself, catches fire,
destroys the belly, strips buildings, goes missing.
Punches. Smashes heirlooms. Tells lies. The best lies.
Fucks around. Writes poems, impresses people. Chases
lovers into corners. Leaves them longing. Seasick. Says
yes. Means anything but. Tricks the body. Kills the body.
Dances wild and walks away, smiling.
the three percent
That awful three percent in you
thinks sadness is romantic.
Is aroused by unsavoury things.
Wants the very worst thing to happen.
Wants everyone to want you but doesn’t know how to be loved.
Needs want.
Wants, needs.
Makes up stories and sticks with them. Can’t be happy for your friends.
That horrible three per cent in you thinks you’ll be left behind.
Fears new things, old things,
intimacy, loneliness,
children, childlessness, conflict, boredom, isolation,
silence, news.
That terrible three percent of you
is the reason it might fall through.
the biggest tortoise in the world
“They found the biggest tortoise
in the world in South America today,”
you said, massaging the tender knot at the back of my neck
with one hand
removing your boots
with the other.
“They had to get a lorry or
something to remove it, imagine that.”
I said nothing, thinking of all of the things you understand
and all of the things you don’t
like how I will love you forever but
probably from afar
not in the way you want and
how you’ll find somebody new to be with. It’s only fair.
Maybe your new love will have
tightness in the neck
a passion for useless facts
the power to stick around
and really, I miss you already.
I only say it because I love you
You wake,
your weather against your window
your thoughts against yourself. Last night was triumphant
in its way, you should have been there. God,
you should have been there. There were glittering scenes
everywhere; rain fell,
people bloomed, wore black and blues,
saw their reflections suddenly,
shouted, left home,
fell in love with somewhere else.
Did you stay around to be part of it?
This is the thing, you can always choose
the story. If the ending is wrong,
you can build it again.
If only we understood the power of the
pen, how we write ourselves into
being, how we keep on crafting truth.
I wish we understood that our
words are wishes, cast.
I wish we understood
that our lives are built from thoughts.
Old practiced tunnels
hardening around us.
How long will you hold yourself away
from the things that are calling,
anyway? All of the bright, all of the necessary.
Thing that would bump the colour of it all,
things that would wash you brilliant,
things that you dare not seek.
There was a time you might have dared.
Do not lose it to history.
Anyway, that much is impossible.
Nothing you have loved,
made sense of,
come to awful terms with,
accepted,
raged against,
no time you have spent,
nothing you had
(or thought you had)
is ever truly lost. Yes,
I'm looking at you.
I only say it because I love you.
