Rishika Pandit
Coventry Cartogram: Places of Poetry in the city
1. Coming to Coventry by Wuraola Balogun
Place: The Railway Pub, Luckhurst Lane (Former)
Young refugees, African poets, Caribbean elders,
Somali groups, South Asian migrants, Chinese and
Polish, survivors and dreamers, businessmen and labourers,
worshippers and atheists, lone pilgrims, and those who came in packs.
Some travelled on foot, so they could turn back if they
wanted to. Some volunteered to come on a British
boat and left friends and family behind. Some fashioned
for themselves a vessel. They came with bright eyes,
they came loudly, with their rich accents, fast-paced music,
aromatic food, bright clothes that sparkled on special occasions,
laughter lingered after them like a scent, they came separately
but ended together, in the community centres and dance floors,
in the safety of each other, it felt just like home.
‘In the 1970s one half of The Railway Pub was owned by an Indian man called Mr Nijjar but known as Deete, and the other half was used by the West Indians, and in the middle floor was a massive dance floor.’ - Ms Hay
Bring in your family, and gather all those who you
know into this place of rest. The Railway Pub was
a shelter, you could be loud there and wear your
sari all night long, your shine is no problem here.
Shine baby shine! Come let us dance and forget about
the outside world.
‘Ms Hay said this was a time when racism was much more explicit, and the club was a safe space. You can still see the Railway Pub building off the Lockhurst Lane bridge in Coventry' - Interviewer
They made it clear they didn’t want us outside, so
we sought for a building and found one to share
But even here we are still separated, two lines divided,
cultural barriers push me to the wall as I play snooker all night long.
“Along with the Windrush, we were invited to Britain because were British subjects. Britain wanted to rebuild after the war, and who better to build it than your foreign and commonwealth sisters? We were invited to help run the railways, transport, everything. Britain should have provided housing for us, given us a meeting place in each city.” - Mr Graham
We had to dig our own plot of land. We had to work hard
to have our own space, they just left us on the streets.
Especially after 1981, even though we were here lawfully,
without a home, we were foreigners.
So, we went door to door to collect some change,
for a place we could call our own, in search of four
walls that were portals to our islands. A place to jubilate,
commemorate, and celebrate. We will no longer move
from space to space, from meeting halls and
and working men’s club, give us the key to our
own place. Summer 1983, The Coventry West
Indian Community Centre opened and never shut.
If you walked past Spon Street on a Saturday evening
you’ll see the West Indians occupying their own space.
Playing their own card games, occupying wind that carried
their own ska, punk, and reggae.
Every night was bingo night with talks of change
and revolution. Crowds of Jamaica, Barbados,
Guyana, Trinidad, and St Vincent occupied the
space. Yu waan mek change? Come to di club.
2. The Photographer by Andrew Sharpe
Place: Spon Gate
She hears and tells my untold story,
with silent eloquence.
I am enabled to be who I am,
to talk with pretention,
but no pretence.
We speak of
the ‘Mundanity of Evil’
a must see new
yet old
show,
for foul is the new fair,
and its revival run is extended,
back in theatres,
everywhere.
We walk past Harris fencing,
containing, capturing, chaining
soon to be broken bones
of a brutalist Utopia.
The city we once knew.
Boomer
and
Millennial,
thirty five
years apart,
wholesale demolition,
of our pasts,
our hopes,
our hearts.
The Chapel in the Summerlands,
one sullen winters day,
ground bone hard with January frost.
out-with the wall of ancient stone,
and curfew locked gates.
Here, thirty years apart,
Dorian and Lydia, were lost
and found
and then
again
lost
Finally we reach the river bridge.
The festering, foul and fetid Sherbourne
slithers underground.
You photograph the rats,
who see nothing ever changes
under the mirthless, bitter winter sun.
We tell stories of imaginary friends,
as the ‘Mundanity of Evil’
runs
and runs
and runs
and runs.
3. Holding the Memories by Anne Patterson
Place: Hearsall Common
As autumn arrives with unseasonal gales
to dispel the heat of summer
I try to catch the memories in my net of words
before they slip away like dreams in the morning light.
We first heard of the virus as December
handed over the baton to January
At first it caused barely a ripple in the stream of the world
while we watched Australia burn.
But as the list of countries in quarantine
got longer and longer, the gathering storm grew
While weather fronts with names battered our shores
and drenched our heartlands, Italy went into lockdown
A harbinger of what was to come.
The onrushing pandemic like a tsunami
overwhelmed first one country, then another
Planes to Spain turned around in the air
leaving the sky unblemished.
The streets became eerily quiet
tenanted only by keyworkers
keeping the essentials of life going
honoured by windows full of rainbows
and our weekly applause.
Everything extraneous came to a shuddering halt
At one stroke, weeks of plans erased from my diary
I felt a huge sense of relief
I had time to stop, time to rest, time to breathe
Time to forage the green leaves
burgeoning in the bright spring sun.
Nettle, Wild Garlic, Dandelion, Ground Elder, Lemon Balm
Lamb’s Lettuce, Hawthorn, Salad Burnet, Sweet Cicely
Time to cook, to nourish body & soul
Time to walk and sit on the common
the urban oasis on my doorstep
delighting in all its different faces
The shaded walkway between the backs of houses
and the belt of trees, younger than me
The old playing fields open to the sun
making space for illicit sunbathers and picnics
The clumps of hawthorn, elder and wild rose
coming into flower as spring turned to summer
The braided paths through the woods of birch and oak
holly and thorn, rowan and willow
The unmown verges filled with star-like flowers
The bank along which 70 people kneeled for eight minutes
and 46 seconds to honour a life cruelly taken.
Time to watch the sky
the sun rising and setting
creeping along the horizon day by day
the moon waxing and waning
marking the passing of each month
Jupiter and Saturn hanging low in the south
through the summer nights
comet Neowise briefly gracing the twilight, but soon gone.
Time to sit and be still
letting go of the tight grasp of my monkey mind
watching the world in its everchanging dance
realising I can’t change the world
but I can be changed by it
I just need to pay attention.
4. Coventry, The Specials and Me by Nick Knibb aka The Archbishop
Place: Earlsdon
it all began that summer
in fact, it pretty much happened over night
one minute we were card carrying punks
worshipping at the Church of Joe Strummer
the next we were rude boys in black and white
hopeless school leavers
lacklustre wasters, disillusioned untutored
pretty vacant no future
then a whisper came here and there
there were new kings in town
with a Bluebeat to share
from Kingston Jamaica to Coventry
a Special delivery AKA;
crisp white shirts and short cropped hair
a cathedral, ruins and still one to spare
tower block βlats and council houses
smart dressed boys in Sta-prest trousers
a reggae rhythm with the guts of punk
dancing all night, getting drunk
records and badges with factory money
skins and mods thinking us funny
and the driving force behind this whole scene
were some boys from Cov
who made it seem
that this was our thing
this was our time
these were the best days to be alive.
the NME said that this was the home
of the rocksteady sound from the boys at 2 Tone
a Windrush calypso for the concrete jungle
an innocent kiss
less than innocent fumbles
from pubescent to adolescent
stars aligned in the ascendant
Clash, Damned and Ruts record collector
gave way to Madness, Specials and the Selecter
sharp suits and leather loafers
Top of the Pops, eating tea on the sofa
that night a real Ska takeover
the transformation was complete...
never thought I'd wear a tie after leaving school
but the Specials made em look cool
dragging round the market on a Saturday morning
picking up shirts
getting Mom to do the ironing
making a move on the club dance βloor
getting tickets for the 2 Tone tour
I hadn't had such a big smile
on my face
since I got past βirst base with Jenny O Driscoll
at a dry iced dark night Church Hall Disco
my βirst love the best girl in school
at last I was cool!
I felt that I knew it all...
til I saw her kissing the kid from the paper shop
that would explain the perpetual supply of pear drops
tears on my pillow but
a broken heart soon βixed
with Prince Buster and Trojans greatest hits
the night of the gig feeling great
me and my mates looking ace
getting the bus
feeling the tension
this political stuff
someone failed to mention
I mean we weren't naive or anything like that
we'd seen a few scraps following the Clash
but this was heavy
too many skins
too much aggro βlailing limbs
National Front going recruiting
British Movement putting the boot in
‘Ain't no black in the Union Jack’
lads at gigs under attack
we couldn't understand the logic
why you'd want a white island
but dance to reggae music
but all that lot and Thatcher
and the bouncers and the NF and all they said
disappeared when we heard our Rude Boys play
this was our life, this was our way
we'd got a voice and something to say
didn't listen to Lords and political vultures
we'd got our own black and white culture
this was magic
the skanking beat
Blue Tonic suited and Jerry Dammers teeth
so went our scene in days of frivolity
my life
my world
Coventry
the Specials and me.
5. Ring of Ages by Stacey Hirons
Place: Ring Road
Where flint was late knapped, near Junction 6,
The trilobites first began their crawl.
Later, mammoths grazed by 4,
Untroubled by signage, cones or walls.
Time chalked a circle, druids stalled -
Their mules did stamp, their omens call.
At solstice peak, they sought the fix
Of stars aligned and traffic lighter than this.
Rome came next with tesserae and toll,
A denarius charged at Junction 7.
Centurions marked the central goal:
All roads led in, none out to heaven.
Coventry held the Roman soul,
Its hub declared, its bounds unshriven.
The legions paved with ordered grace,
Then vanished, leaving ring-shaped space.
Markets bloomed beneath,
Mummers danced their mysteries.
Peasants paid to pass on by,
Clockwise through their histories.
Godiva rode the outer lane,
Her protest clothed in silent pride.
Medieval monks took inner track
To St Mary’s shrine, in solemn train.
Spectral gatekeepers waved them back -
The Earl’s congestion charge: arcane.
Prayer was coin, and silence tax,
Their pilgrimage a looping chain.
At Junction 3, they’d pause and kneel,
Then circle on, faith made real.
Cavalier and Roundhead spun
In opposite, unending flight.
Condemned to laps once sent and war was done,
Their cause dissolved in traffic’s night.
No victor’s arch, no battle won -
Just circling lanes, sodium light.
City walls, once proud and high,
Were breached by tarmac, grey and dry.
Steam came next:
Engines chuffed and pistons sighed.
Weavers clattered under 9,
Factories belched at 5.
The first machine to run was free -
fuelled not by coal, but grievance wide.
Smoke rose like sermons from the mills,
And soot adorned the Ring Road’s frills.
Then bombers came. They liked the shape.
Incendiaries fell in burning arcs.
Obedient to the curve’s escape,
They left behind their brutal marks.
Red rubble broke and scarred the ground,
At Junction 1, where silence parked.
The planners came with maps and codes,
To sanctify the ring with newer roads.
Concrete priests in hard hats stood,
Rebaptised the loop with grace.
They poured their sacraments of good
Design, and gave it modern face.
Efficient orbit, planned and prim,
A holy loop, a civic hymn.
The Ring Road smiled. It knew the score.
It had seen it all before.
Now it loops, a necklace grey,
A crown of fumes we wear each day.
While others pass, we stay beneath -
Our lives spinning on roundabouts of grief.
It promises escape, but sends
Us back, always back again.
To the same small centre, bends
Where history circles, never to end.
Coventry holds an ancient breath -
City of myth.
City of history.
City of life
And death.
6. City Centre Sonnet by Phil Hyde
Place: Lower Precinct Shopping Centre
Under its concrete and ceramic skin,
A remembered city I once lived in:
The old Gas Showrooms, Owens, Fishy Moores,
Dolcis, Chelsea Girl and British Home Stores.
Highfield Road: Sky Blues in broad daylight
Mr George’s on a Saturday night
Away games left us free to shop, of course,
And we splashed our cash without remorse.
The ghosts that haunt the Precinct in my dreams
Are always snapped in black and white, it seems.
Stalls and smells inside the covered market
Don’t touch that in your new coat, you’ll mark it!
The invisible city of my youth
Will never die ‘til I do. That’s the truth.
7. Coventry Heritage by Martin Brown
Place: Lady Godiva Statue
What does the history
of his adopted city
mean to him as he moves
from office to car
to home for some grub
watch some TV
make holiday plans
and get changed to grab
a pint or two down at the pub?
Perhaps the fluid meaning
of Being Sent to Coventry,
Godiva, St. Osburg, the Phoenix,
The Lunt, Cofa’s Tree, the Blitz, true
blue ribbons, watches, cycles and cars,
seeps into the brain, which it feeds
like rain sneaking into the earth
bringing to birth long-buried seeds.
Or maybe things that we learn,
feel, and should know
dribble away and secretly flow
down sewers and drains
riverlets and streams
to the Sherbourne and Sowe
Avon and Severn, and into the sea
to be washed up on shores
like never-remembered dreams,
each one dried out, abandoned, alone,
waiting for exiles wandering the coasts
to find them and carry them home.
8. Ode to IKEA by Alison Manning
Place: IKEA in City Centre (Former)
Oh Ikea
They say you will open your doors
No more.
I have liked
Living near you
Being able to drop by
For a browse,
A sheet,
Cuddly toys,
A plant pot,
Some meat balls,
Two foot stools,
A veggie hot dog,
A Valentine's breakfast
Or a wooden spoon.
But, perhaps, I should have bought more Billy Bookcases
And fewer 50p hot chocolates
To help you cover your costs.
I'll miss you.
But I see reminders of you
In my house
Everywhere I glance
And the 'dead' lemon tree I bought
In what proved to be your final sale
Is blooming anew.
9. City Arcade Poem by Raef Boylan
Place: City Arcade (Former)
Tony asked Facebook
What was the last beautiful thing you felt? and I hadn't spoken properly to Tony in a while so l typed out a proper reply in the comments
about The Arcade
on its final night of public access
in all its ugly glory
the filthy scuff marks and cobwebs and pigeon shit and tiles scabbed with Social Distancing alerts and goodbye notes scrawled on scraps of paper taped to shop shutters for only the spiders to read
the people who wrote them long gone ejected into the .com wilderness and I paced back and forth feeling lost in a very familiar place
choked up and pathetic, not wanting to leave lingering by that flight of stairs where the buskers
and The Big Issue seller used to camp out and I realised, tomorrow, venturing upwards
would not be an option so we climbed to the ceiling
me and my crutches and my frozen fingers
I figured l'd take one last photo the view...the angles...the lighting... something would be unique...
but things didn't look any better from the top of the world
there was nothing special to see except a rogue black clothes hanger
in the anti-pigeon netting
Hello, said the hanger
What are you doing up here? I asked
Just hanging around
Iwondered for how many years and who else had noticed
I felt honoured to make its acquaintance
This is all gonna go soon, I said
I know
I'll miss it
Me too, I'm hooked on the place
What are we gonna do?
Just keep hanging on
I nodded and wished the hanger good luck
and hobbled back down and eventually went home
and you couldn't capture any of this on a phone and these words haven't articulated it either
it was just a daft human having a daft human moment
but there was something beautiful and pure in that sudden total acceptance that some things will keep on changing that some changes will demolish you
if you don't learn to let go
and l didn't say most of this in my comment and Tony responded with a HaHa reaction
so now the last beautiful thing I felt was unexpectedly making a mate laugh
10. Early Evening in Winter by Karima Brooke
Place: Steps of the Herbert Museum and Art Gallery
‘Do you know who’s my favourite artist?’
She asked, as we stood on the Museum steps.
At four, in December, it was sunset.
To our right, students criss-crossed rapidly,
Like a film of traffic at night,
Or birds, purposefully preparing to roost.
On our left, visitors leave the Cathedral,
Archangel has vanquished Devil for now.
Last glow before night reflects off Angel’s spear.
Names from Katie meets the Impressionists
All failed the test; some sparked approval though.
Was I warm or cold, or in a different place?
The scene before us might hold some clue.
‘It’s Lowry’, she said. ‘Now you guess why.’
Hen party in costumes passed jostling by.
‘In Lowry’s paintings, there’s lots of people;
No-one is lonely, they all have friends.’
We spread a coat on the steps and watched.
11. Then the Clock Stopped by Joe Reynolds
Place: Broadgate
The clock stopped,
on the B of the bang,
the hammer struck the bell just once, enough,
its sluggish chime, a wasted ring,
an uncoiled and un-tempered spring,
its functions fucked,
like the man in the public toilet
who died, pissing over his shoes.
Then, the suburbs felt its muffled thud,
holding hands across a wooden table, set,
for a dinner boiling dry,
waiting for an appetite, while fingers drummed
and the three o’clock news reported, a bomb.
Then, should your name begin,
with ‘O’ apostrophe,
then, automatically
you became the enemy,
the tar and feather target
the Fenian legacy.
Then, why should life and death be fair?
They carry no prejudice, fail to distinguish,
what colours over the divide you wear,
or care, where those lines are drawn,
in Eire.
12. I, Unidentified (The Messenger) by Peter Guerney
Place: Priory Row
I was walking down the street
To Priory via Bayley and Cuckoo Lanes
A preacher berated the air around him
City-denizens walked at random, eyes wide-down
Into, across my path and around me
Seemingly led by their noses,
Which were attached, buried
in small slate-like slab devices,
thumbs-twitching as they went.
Lurching past the Lychgate and the garden
I rounded a corner, stumbled down a cobbled hill..
…my knees! My fecking cobbled knees!!
When I suddenly beheld awondrous glistening thing
floating in the air before me
… like a vision it was..
What is it? What’s that? What’s that supposed to be?
Well.. listen, listen to me - I saw..
…what did you see? what? An Archangel?
NO-OOHH. I saw that it was a joint, a Sunday joint..
A lump of meat.. sawn, rolled, tied – bound bleeding
A knee-ee.. a h-i-ip.. an agghh-nnkle…
..aye: me..mine.. you see –
at this place of meating I saw that it boremy‘prints’..
Grr-rinding, grr-oaning; at this place of joining,
the interface of bones, of gRrr-reconciliation!
A part-limb, part-tool, a part-machine
Oh – I see they’re all made of a TickyTacky
And they all look just the same..
But look – stay with me - don’t you see?
It’s Tickytacknology!
It slowly revolves around
Hovers around me, hums, bleeps at me..
It’s a condenser, a transformer..
..spitting hissing sparks.. and red all-over fat
and round again and once again
It’s a Donor, a donay-shon!
It’s a doner kebab – a donor kebabble!
Skewered, minced, rotating, hovering there
..a Rotisserie Rosary, turning – a sacrificial lamb..
It’s a false, fallen flag, Shredded,
de-boned, rolled and tied for your pleasure,
for your delight, Ladies and Gents!
Stripes, sky crosses bundled
Glorious deep blue, raw bloody red
Pure innocent virginal
Starry stellar-by-stealth night!
I fell to my knees…
AAGGHh! My feckin’ cobbled-kneeees!!
I beseeched It:
O Unknown Aerial Bandaged Object!
O Unidentified Injured Object!
I stuttered: i-i-dentify yourself..! identify yourself..!
It hiss-barked back at me:
You dare ask me?! Iunidenti-f-aye..
I donotidenti-f-aye! IAM!
It’s now a shell.. A projectile, a projection
From inside, internally outward
It’s a tongue-twister it will turn you to its will!
She Sees Shells On the Selling Shore
She sees can-nisters on the shelling floor
The holy tin, that horn-a-plenty
O where is that holy can-opener when I need it?!
On it’s bloody flanks I see pareidolia messages
The signatures of politicians scrawled
Finger-nail scratched as the messages of children
to other children, to mothers, people.. over there..
I see faces screaming from its surface
It’s now a head, it’s now a foot, a torso, a member..
It’s now a fish, a fat floating, bloated grass carp netted
It’s a trophy..
Oh - but now don’t shootthe messenger kindly..
13. On the Unveiling of Philip Larkin's Blue Plaque by Emilie Lauren Jones
Place: 2 Poultney Road
after I Remember, I Remember by Philip Larkin
Nothing, like something, happens anywhere
but I’m glad it happened here.
Every time I walk through town,
shops have moved
I find
my new favourite restaurant
closed down
but writers meet in the crevices
knowing poeting is possible within these walls
because your footsteps knew these streets too,
your pen formed words at a wooden desk
and the magazine you were proud to put your name beneath
is still in print.
Every time I read that poem,
I get a thrill knowing that my city
is the one namedropped.
I’m well aware of poetic licence
and that you could have mentioned
anywhere.
But I’m glad you didn’t,
I’m glad it was here.
14. Kaleidoscope Highway by Cathy Webb
Place: Journey through the city to my grandma's house
The raindrops run down the window, collecting colours as they go.
We turn off the A45 and the hotel on the hill shines out its blue beacon,
Spin around the roundabout with flashes of pub red and petrol station yellow.
The ALVIS sign comes into sight,
Crimson recrimination of days gone by,
We go by.
Under the black and yellow jaws of the railway bridge and past Lady Godiva, glowing blue by
the side of the road.
A flash of fire engine red.
Then, all at once, we are plunged into the grey shadows of a giant elephant, leaving in its
wake a trail of chlorine perfumed steamed up yellow light.
A rummage in the jewellery box of Far Gosford Street – multi-coloured fairy lights twinkling
gem-like through the rain,
then plunging into the coloured cellophane wrapper windows of Ball Hill.
Forum red, nearly there.
The monolithic hospital appears with its chessboard face of black and white windows.
Red lion, red stop.
A final splash of yellow – the gateway to Grandma’s house.
15. Observations on Storm Darragh
Place: Whoberley Court
it was still dark when I rose
to the rush of the wind, a whispered scream —
the stir,
the stir in the skies
from a storm awoken and
a sudden cry behind the sky
the night was a
shaking pulse
nothing
headlights Coventry’s sky
tonight
ripped open by the speed of change
whoooooooooooooosh
the Wind
paints the sky that is like a muted canvas
picking up the arms of trees
and the lips of chattering letterboxes
and the necks of littered bottles
the house feels like a cage
the winds
KNOCK-thud-KNOCK-thud
on my front door,
hungry for my surrender
I look out of the window
after a screeching cry
Kkkkkrrrrrrrrrraghhhh—
the grinding scream of metal on metal,
as if the world is tearing itself apart.
with every gust
trees tremble and tremble and tremble
leaves pulled apart from the downpour
there are blue, green, and brown wheelie bins that topple over,
thud.
retching up all of their recycling
there are Christmas lights half-blown,
flickering black with reds and greens
my eyes
are drawn to the parked cars
these lumps of machines
as if pretending they do not see
the storm unfolding around them
(silent witness
to the chaos
they helped create)
weaned on fossil fuels,
plastic and glass are born
crkkkkkk
they obtain life,
and into cars they transform
by the time they line the roads with steel,
they have a taste for gasoline
andhissfor diesel
and when the final hour comes to pass,
batteries and non-recyclables release toxic gas
(cars are woven into the fabric of the Earth’s breath)
shhhh-RieeeeeeeeeK
grating
screeching
I follow the sound up to the sky —
to the loose mechanics of this world 2
a sound so familiar…
wheels spin through these dark clouds.
a loud hush
brushing concrete
a crack of thunder like a horn blaring as it passes.
prrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!
blaring; uncaring
the flash on flash, a blinking indicator for turning winds.
white-black-black-white-black-black-white
wink-blink-wink-blink-wink
a car, a storm—they sound the same.
paper crumpling. smooth it out. then crumple it again.
the slow stepping of something ominous—coming closer and closer.
soft steps accelerating.
pace quickening.
emblazoning runs across the tracks of black
fuels of rain leaks
then spits then spills
onto empty trees
and shredded leaves
the world is madness
MADNESS
civilisation bl o wn a way
the climate has been driven to ruin
twisting shadows
wind and breath
but the land is no machine 3
it cannot be recharged, repaired, or replaced
lost in the hum of machines
and the blare of horns
no one can outrun
the damage that has been caused
for once our planet is gone,
there is
No
more
home.