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9 X WRITERS 9 X FILM-MAKERS / 27 POETRY FILMS / COVENTRY RINGROAD

9 X WRITERS 9 X FILM-MAKERS CREATING POETRY FILMS ABOUT COVENTRY RINGROAD

I Remember, I Remember by Philip Larkin

In this poem, Philip Larkin looks back, and to some extent forwards, passing through his native city. It's a bittersweet, slightly sour recollection, verging on the estranged familiarity of jamais vu (never seen) especially when Larkin, surprised, suddenly realises he is "home", but a home he has more or less forgotten.

I Remember, I Remember

by Philip Larkin

Coming up England by a different line
For once, early in the cold new year,
We stopped, and, watching men with number plates
Sprint down the platform to familiar gates,
"Why, Coventry!" I exclaimed. "I was born here."

I leant far out, and squinnied for a sign
That this was still the town that had been 'mine'
So long, but found I wasn't even clear
Which side was which. From where those cycle-crates
Were standing, had we annually departed

For all those family hols? . . . A whistle went:
Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.
'Was that,' my friend smiled, 'where you "have your roots"?'
No, only where my childhood was unspent,
I wanted to retort, just where I started:

By now I've got the whole place clearly charted.
Our garden, first: where I did not invent
Blinding theologies of flowers and fruits,
And wasn't spoken to by an old hat.
And here we have that splendid family

I never ran to when I got depressed,
The boys all biceps and the girls all chest,
Their comic Ford, their farm where I could be
'Really myself'. I'll show you, come to that,
The bracken where I never trembling sat,

Determined to go through with it; where she
Lay back, and 'all became a burning mist'.
And, in those offices, my doggerel
Was not set up in blunt ten-point, nor read
By a distinguished cousin of the mayor,

Who didn't call and tell my father There
Before us, had we the gift to see ahead -
'You look as though you wished the place in Hell,'
My friend said, 'judging from your face.' 'Oh well,
I suppose it's not the place's fault,' I said.

'Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.'

To find out more, you can read Larkin's follow-up article, Not The Place's Fault, on the Umbrella magazine website: http://coventryartsumbrella.blogspot.co.uk/2011/06/not-places-fault-phillip-larkin-in.html

Larkin statue sauntering through the train station of his "other" home, Hull.

Larkin statue sauntering through the train station of his "other" home, Hull.

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