FORGOTTEN STORIES
Oxford city centre offers tours of Colleges, University tours guided by Alumni, Alice in Wonderland tours, Harry Potter tours, Inspector Morse tours, anything a TOURist could want… but where is the tour for people who want to look beyond the fictional and academic characters of the city?
Forgotten Stories Of Oxford is a Spoken Word collection written by Rawz which comes together to form a tour of his home town's centre. Each poem is tied to a specific geographic location and a story about the not so ordinary residents who have walked the streets beneath the iconic skyline throughout distant and recent history.
Bespoke tours are available guided by the artist himself, taking in a selection of the locations while Rawz performs the connected poetry, tells more about the stories which inspired the pieces, and answers questions.
The tour is also available online to enjoy "self-guided" in person, or through a computer screen from wherever you are in the world.
Maps
Stories are waiting for you. Discover them at your own pace.
Access recordings of the poems on your phone and take in a story or two on a lunch break or with friends on a day out. A downloadable PDF Map is available to print and share or checkout the Google Earth tour using the buttons below.
Better yet you can hire Rawz to give an in person tour of select locations, perform the poems live, share some of the inspiration behind them, answer questions and discuss themes with you and your group.
Hit the Contact button below for more info!
Poems
(In no particular order)
The Westberrys
This memorial is the only remaining evidence of the curious passing of three young souls from the same family. Will we ever know what happened to the Westberry children? THE WESTBERRYS What happened to the Westberrys? That left a mark here A fragment of the pain remaining For us to share Joanne and William Stood and looked at this stone With the sorrow of three children lost Aged 3 Aged 2 Aged 4 Two of them bore Joanne’s name One, that of the Holy Mother The Westberrys stood at this stone and wept This is where Will and Joane’s first boy John stood He saw three sisters pass before he was 8 Rebecca born the year little Joanne died And Mary who’s spirit left and came back in 1687 They visited their sisters here For a prayer The monument Saw parents grieve anew For young Ann Who only saw five sunsets One February The carved face of this stone Saw John, Rebecca and Mary’s eyes When they lost their mother William’s trembling hand When he lost his wife Joanne Joanne Hall before they married A young servant girl Now Mother to 4 lost children And 3 she could see Two years before she left this realm Joanne witnessed a house built In view of her girl's monument For the poor children of the parish For their education and benefit Maybe for John, Rebecca and Mary Too late for the 4 girls lost The children’s monument Saw William for maybe 30 years more When he came to visit As time went on Less He was 89 when he saw his Joannes again An old man Father to 4 lost children And 3 he could see The monument stayed A fragment of the pain left remaining For us to share It saw war, Peace, love, fights and laughter Reminding us ever after Of the Westberrys That left a mark here RAWZ
A Snuffed Out Candle
Dambudzo Marechera was a fiercely brilliant but troubled writer from Zimbabwe, who created some of his most celebrated works while in this city, a place which many believe drove him out of his mind A SNUFFED OUT CANDLE Just another bright candle Snuffed out by this city Lit a fire beneath the colonial constructs he could not communicate with Conflicted. He asked Was it collusion or collaboration? He could not be sure. Could he be a cure? Or just another part of the infestation The mutation Of his thoughts His very brain His own Tongue Was he caught in this web Or just another lie Spun To preserve and protect The arachnid feeding at it’s centre At the request of the College He once inquired For three hours Am I insane? And concluded That the madness Was plain In his surroundings So he checked out Could not stay any longer in this place Lit a fire Beneath the gates Of his prison From the outside As he left. Away from the ornate Tapping typewriter keys alone in a damp tent To produce his best He was Just another drunk With no bed for his head to rest A House of Hunger With food for plenty Gave nourishment to some But left him empty A burned out candle A forgotten shape Patterns in wax remind us Of a bright and proud flame Never to be seen again A witness A fragment of this A crack in the facade Some saw as a stain to be scrubbed away But the heat From that flame Will always remain A light that won't fade Dambudzo Marechera RAWZ
These Steps
These time-worn steps quietly witnessed a continuing struggle for recognition and solidarity. They carried resolute voices to the ears of thousands THESE STEPS They stood on these steps in protest Placards and Megaphones Thousands of people Making themselves heard Making sure that they were noticed And no longer so easy to ignore These steps Witnessed Sasha address The crowd gathered Because enough was enough They chanted Stanmore’s name So that he was not forgotten To remind the world That his life matters They stood on these steps in protest These small steps Shook the bedrock Of these buildings Thousands of feet Carried a message that we Are people That matter Loud In the middle of town Where romanesque architecture Bares down Eyes of stone stare you down From thrones made of lives And lies To be broken down From behind locked doors To be forced open By any means necessary They stood on these steps in protest So that we could know That our anguish and frustration Must no longer be suffered alone Or in silence That change begins at home That change must begin Now These steps Are small But a single step is where all change Begins RAWZ
Our Olive
Our Olive was a salt of the earth working class girl from the now decimated neighbourhood of St Thomas. She grew up to become Oxford’s second ever female Mayor and a founding member of a global peace movement OUR OLIVE Our Olive Was a rebel from the start Held the record for detentions in her school Same girl that was Expelled from party politics For following her heart She loved her people And they loved her Believing in peace for all She fought On behalf of a voiceless few A real battler A protective barrier And toppler of walls Believing in peace For all She helped found CND In an attempt To prevent Another Hiroshima Or Nagasaki Interested in issues Not party politics Her alignment was with truth And doing what’s right Blocked the council closure of a nursery And defended the traditional terraced housing we can still see Never parochial in her outlook She nationally attacked pamphlets packed with propaganda Published by subservient establishment bodies Pandering to a false narrative Our Olive upheld her belief in honesty And was honoured Not just with building at Brookes University But more importantly In these streets Where she represented and demonstrated her love For all With every action she would take She was from here And here she is still Here she always will be Our Olive RAWZ
The Colonial Theme Park
The beating heart of British Colonialism bleeds over everything, and holds many attractions for tourists from every corner of the globe. Don’t forget to buy your “I LOVE LONDON” souvenir from the gift shop! THE COLONIAL THEME PARK Backpacks and maps Camera phones or long lensed, long legged tripods Eagerly standing in line to see the next attraction Queuing in an all too British fashion In picturesque sunshine or with rain lashing Socks pulled up to knees and short shorts Standing on tippy toes to catch a glimpse Of the action Here for a thousand years or more For an afternoon excursion Searching Desperately Not to miss that thing that must be seen To tread on the same streets As someone important once did To grasp that thread And follow it To that life changing epiphany Before the bus leaves So pretty It must be seen to be believed Use a zoom lens to get closer It looks just like the postcard Architecture and artefacts captured And placed in cases Presented for the glory of church and crown Take only photographs home To the nation of origin And don’t touch Buy a souvenir bag that says I love London And add an aluminium miniature Big Ben for the mantlepiece as a bonus You have been to Oxford! Just remember to Respect our local customs Please don't feed the homeless. RAWZ
Roots
Roots was a short lived, self built, self sustaining Afro-Caribbean Community Centre that unknowingly occupied a condemned building donated by the City Council ROOTS I took a walk once With some elders Osman and AJ We talked about town Back in the day Men Shouting slurs At AJ and his friends As they pass A regular from cars Roots is the place You can go Where skinheads get chased out Roots If there’s nowhere else Osman made the place to be From a building condemned Straight from apprenticeship His first undertaking Creating A space For himself and others He never knew The building was due for demolition But He did have a vision Could see what this place could be For a short time It became Somewhere to train Be inspired Play Make A home for Community in town Everyone welcome But no smoking No drinking inside Those things wear you down Before long City Councillors called time on the building No inner city for Oxford No place for Black children So Roots was removed Too unrefined for this high class view Cowley was were these Young Blacks could go If they must Make a fuss Give them something to do Until later Much later When Cowley is “Improved” Osman kept going Stood his own ground Later Years later A new place was found To put down Roots Another derelict building To be made fit for use New businesses grew And apprentices came To learn with new tools Roots changed the game Somewhere to train Be inspired Play Make A home for Community in town Everyone welcome But no smoking No drinking inside Those things wear you down I took a walk once With some elders Osman and AJ We talked about town Back in the day Roots was a place You could go If there was no where else Alongside other havens To find space for yourself All slowly replaced By the chains of today Something lost forever We won’t see again But through foundations of buildings So preciously preserved Roots can still find a way To connect with the earth RAWZ
Stone Hearts
An appealing row of red brick terraced houses built on the site of an old royal palace, home to a curious tradition that lasted for just over 100 years before it suddenly mysteriously stopped STONE HEARTS From the ruins of the old palace Where Richard’s Lionheart first pulsed The old palace That witnessed the Crusader to be Shape a first word with his lips and tongue In French of course He never spoke English Here Gradually From farmland Grew a terrace of houses Made of red brick Not quite the colour of blood J. Arlidge The brick maker Was first to leave his initial on the wall Alongside the date 1826 Half a lifetime later Some other soul etched their time In impossibly formal typeface Starting a tradition To live More than 100 years One brick up and one to the right Someone scratched 1910 Above that J.B. did the same Only the 20s was their day Soon These red bricks became a register A book of stone hearts A record of lives that came and went Loved and lost Letters Left behind Maybe for an old flame To return one day And run A wizened finger Across familiar shapes Remember A name That once put butterflies in their belly Maybe Tell of that name to a son or granddaughter That never saw the smiling face of what might have been Or the loving eyes of an alternate future That was never to be RAWZ
Treasures Of The Hidden Spire
Oxford’s smallest spire holds a hidden treasure. Not just the one buried under its foundations; there are many gifts to be found beneath The Hidden Spire TREASURES OF THE HIDDEN SPIRE 1894 under the foundations here Was placed A treasure Hidden beneath the foundation stone A cask Filled with the days gifts A coin A dinner invitation A kind word These are the treasures of this building A shining secret Safe underneath warm earth Upon that foundation Was built a hidden spire A tower Made to keep that treasure safe So that generations to come Could share in its glow Inside the hidden spire Are people Who try to share the day’s gifts With those that hadn't seen Or who had been forgotten People Who help in a crisis People The treasures of the hidden spire Their smiles The days gifts 1894 under the foundations here Was placed a treasure Hidden beneath the foundation stone A cask Filled with the days gifts But the treasures of the hidden spire Are not hidden They are here To find And be found by To keep safe To be filled with the day’s gifts And share To see the treasures And pass on them on A coin A dinner invitation A kind word These are the treasures of this building RAWZ
Mr Nice's Dress Shop
Mr Nice owned a popular dress shop in the heart of town, a charismatic man who was known for his ability to make things happen. Perhaps this is why Mr Nice also worked with MI6 and the CIA… and became a key player in the global marijuana trade MR NICE’S DRESS SHOP They say Mr Nice Knew the CIA His shop Stocked with the finest fabrics from the near east Eye catching designs Conjured Crafted by his seamstresses Into the most exquisite dresses Many satisfied housewives And excited young Misses Hopped From the doors of Mr Nice’s Dress shop Beaming Mr Nice A bridge Karachi Brighton Kabul Oxford Purveyor of Choice imported goods Stamps Dresses And Other products Less Legal In nature Oxford connections University assets Opened doors And borders Helped Ease the passage An old friend Secret service A favour returned An insider A foot In the door A pound Can be earned Mr Nice A bridge MI6 CIA IRA Oxford Travel Agents Paper Water Wine All things Mr Nice Can gladly supply Need a secretary? No problem Mr Nice Knows a gal Who will keenly oblige And of course he still sells Stamps Dresses And Other products Less Legal In nature Mr Nice A bridge Beirut Orange County London Oxford The shop More profit But no uptick in sales Mr Nice upstairs If not back home in Wales He looked after the girls That looked after his shop Business was good Why would he stop Hundreds of tonnes Millions of pounds Choice imported goods Stamps Dresses And other products Less Legal In nature Can be found Mr Nice A bridge Your friend from Bridgend Washington Dublin New York Oxford Misunderstandings occurred A few times with the law But the cuffs Never stuck Oxford connections Opened doors And borders Helped Ease passage An old friend and some pennies Sprinkle some magic Mr Nice saw Laws Broken Flaws In the system He chose not to ignore Fought to change things Still helped to maintain them Mr Nice was frustrated By the game He still played it Mr Nice A bridge Tokyo Bangkok Bogota Oxford Purveyor of Choice imported goods Stamps Dresses And Other products Less Legal In nature They say Mr Nice Knew the CIA RAWZ
SOAK
During an era in which Oxford City Council were spending £100,000 per year in an attempt to avoid Graffiti making people “think of deprived areas”, a highly skilled but notorious street artist, SOAK was labelled as a “menace” and targeted by Thames Valley Police and the Oxford Mail in a public campaign pleading for help to “STOP THIS TAGGER” SOAK His heart was right there Made a start at what could've been But his art wasn’t seen In this city Wasn’t part of the scene They saw A nuisance To be nipped in the bud Not wanting to think Or to be reminded About deprived areas They spent £100,000 a year To preserve the greyest of walls For all to see And criminalised his creativity A prolific menace He said just as much with four letters As the crown said with a whole sentence But that can never be sold So they keep wiping With the wrong shade of grey Trying to tippex out mistakes Without thinking about what they need to say Without looking at the shape Or how it’s made What’s in the frame And what exists Outside of the border The vague illusion The vain attempt to maintain Self proclaimed status The perception of pristine greatness Prestige can’t erase the outrage But shame Can be ignored Scrubbing another stain Adverts on billboards Worth more to authorities Than a creation They have no desire to relate to Scrambling to stop a gang Armed with spray cans In a city run down and dirty Some saw an artist Working Some saw A person And some A lesson worth learning Trying to stop this tagger For certain Adds fuel to the fire And keeps this flame burning RAWZ
A Man With Many Names Who Always Danced The Same
George Pirie, Jimmy Norris, Alistair MacDonald… Better known by Oxford people as Captain Tap, or Colonel Mustard - the tap dancing legend of Queen Street THE MAN WITH MANY NAMES (WHO ALWAYS DANCED THE SAME) Some time around 1996 I think I stood here Outside The Early Learning Centre With two brothers My best mates Kiarash and Kaveh Waiting for the Number 11 That day Over the road was Captain Tap He’d always been there On the corner opposite I remember reggae from the battered boom box on the ground Him performing his signature shuffle Amongst the pigeons and passers by That squabble over a scrap of bread or McDonald’s fry On the pavement They mostly paid him no mind Sometimes A dropped coin He seemed equally indifferent to both His well worn shoes keeping rhythm Sometimes rock Psychedelic dance Whatever pop song was popular It didn’t really matter Once He was the Earl of Mustard Sometimes Lord or Colonel A living legend among street performers in London 1969 he was filmed for a documentary “The London Nobody Knows” He became Jimmy Norris And in the 80s fronted A Belgian pop band called Veterans They made albums Captain Jimmy Lord Mustard Earl of Tap performed on national TV Same shuffle Slightly hunched shoulders Arms gracefully conducting his audience As his heel and toe clicked out familiar rhythms He sung about growing old, being a Disco Freak And tap Back in 1921 he was George Pirie Teaching himself to dance age 10 10 years later Music hall stages in a double act he himself described as terrible Somehow His performing partner was killed And as Alastair MacDonald George Jimmy Lord Mustard Colonel Earl of Tap hit the road And as the decades danced by He found himself in Oxford 2006 Lord Mustard Macdonald fancied popping to London for a few days He made the paper A 95 year old missing With 40 quid, slippers and a top hat He slept on a roof, And on the banks of the Thames Then came home That day Sometime around 1996 I think Colonel Mustard aka Captain Tap Jiggeded on the corner Opposite the Early Learning Centre Just up the road from M&S He looked over and saw me, And my mates waiting for the bus 3 new teenagers 13 or 14 Maybe we had fresh trims for our trip into town Me short back and sides with a flat top Kiar and Kav early versions of the “curtains” That would become their 90s obsession That day About 1996 Captain Tap sauntered across Queen’s Street Looked at me Directly in the eye Leaned in And gently told me that I was Bob Marley Not that I looked like him Or that I was the next Bob No, he said: “You’re Bob Marley you are” Smiled, blew me a kiss And shuffled back over the road His feet Never having missed a beat Of his muscle memory honed tap Me, Kaveh and Kiarash were left In hysterics RAWZ