Christopher Moriarty

Biography

I am Christopher Moriarty, an educator and performance poet from Bury. Currently, I am putting together a tour of a show called Seuss for Adults, which has been performed at Wax and Beans, Rufus, Bolton All Souls and as part of the Glaston-Bury festival. I have performed at events across Manchester including Hotch Potch, Transdimensional Space Goats, Speak, Bad Language, Punk in Drublic, Lovely Words at Rufus, Cuckoo Calling. I have been headliner at Spoken Weird, TSG and Waffle. I have performed in Bury at Once More with Meaning and during the Light Night Festival. Also, I performed for Other Voices during the Edinburgh Festival, as well as coming second in a Hammer and Tongue slam heat. In 2016, my debut collection was published by Word Catcher Publishing. Lightspeed is a collection of flash fiction. The editor is still waiting for the follow up. For six years, I was the chief editor of Bunbury Magazine, an on-line arts-and-lit magazine which featured the best words and pictures from around the world, as well as interviews with musicians, playwrights, comedians and everything in-between. We ran two podcasts - Bunbury Speaks, an interview podcast, and Just Write Speaks, the monthly recording of the spoken word sister event. On top of this, out last 3 issues were hard print and distributed internationally, and we published two Bunbury Anthologies, which collected the best of the writing from various issues. As well as this, I ran a writing group called Just Write. We met at The Old White Lion in Bury every Tuesday. We also hosted regular live events where the members of the group can present their finest writings. We also had guest poets, open-mic slots, competitions, prizes...a kitchen sink! It was always a great night.

Samples

Once Once, in the house I lived in, My breath condensed, My toes tensed at every touch Of uncarpeted floors, Heat escaped through unvarnished doors Which did not fit the frames they sat in. In the garden, Five out of service satellite dishes splayed themselves, As a vulgar testament to my Landlord’s lack Of Do It Yourself. Every night, I ate noodles with nutmeg Rice pudding from tins dented And put in the red sticker section of the local corner shop, Only a hop to the next street But in this lack of heat it may as well have been In the back and beyond. Once I had cooked my discounted meal, I left the biggest hob on the highest heat, Drank stout by candlelight, Bought in lieu of any real sustenance, And lost myself in the worlds of Doyle and Conrad and Moore and Forster Under my mother’s crocheted cuddle. ********************************************** The Cruellest Month They sit In rows, Hunched, Sagging, Uniform, a hundred tiny scratching nibs deafening inside the vast velvet sweatbox. Outside, the nursery School across the road rings its end-of-day bell And spills Laughs and screams Into a street Busy and littered with Birch-filtered sunbeams. In the hall, One hundred minds try to Make sense of maths problems Filled with esoteric exposition While trying to block out The clomp of shoes As teachers march Impatiently on tired wood. In and of themselves, Each question is a grain of sand But each feels like an entire beach Dumped on Hunched, Sagging Shoulders. Shoulders now aching With the weight of Expectation To out-perform pushing Parents who know how Little They, themselves, achieved. ********************************************** Map The rain swarmed like fat bees while my Dad choked the engine in and out of life. The camper-van sobbed with the effort As whipped-wolf winds Howled and whined at The screaming pink-plastic windows, Trying with all its might not to blow down. I pressed my face against the steamed glass Next to me and peered into the dark. It dripped and stuck to everything Like honey. The camper wept and shook around me As my hands clung tighter to the Map I was in charge of, A map filled with Criss-cross lines I could Not follow or understand. We were lost and it was my fault. Lost and stuck on the side of A road carved Into a mountain. My dad tried to start the engine again. It coughed over and over and died. He hit the steering wheel and swore. Tears swarmed in my eyes And began to sting the map. I flinched as my dad Stroked my hair. My apology came broken Through ravines, battered by White-water sobs. He took my hand, extended A finger and placed it On the thinnest line on the map. He told me that is where we were Right then. Next to the line was a big blue splodge, Loch Ness, he told me, And if we were very lucky, In the morning, We could go and meet Nessie. My eyes grew wide with half-fear But he told me it was ok, She was very friendly And her favourite food was tuna, Just like me. As the rain continued to swarm Like angry, fat bees, Me and my dad huddled under Two blankets, Our cushioned storm shelter, And I dreamt of Friendly monsters.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by Christopher Moriarty

A Poem A Day For A Year - 19/02/15 (19/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 18/02/15 (19/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 17/02/15 (19/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 16/02/15 (19/02/2015)

A Poem A Day for A Year - 15/02/15 (16/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 14/02/15 (16/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 13/02/15 (16/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 12/02/15 (16/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 11/02/15 (16/02/2015)

A Poem A Day For A Year - 10/02/15 (16/02/2015)

Read more entries by Christopher Moriarty…

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/christophermoriarty