Christian Foley AKA Muz is a 20 year old poet, a Spoken Word artist and Hip Hop MC – the three fit together closely. He began to experiment with writing at quite a young age, around 10 or 11.
Early on, it was reciting his work that led him into the performance poetry side of things, this then evolved into becoming a Hip Hop artist. Since then (and with a lot of practice) he has performed at venues in Britain and Jersey, wrangling praise from the mighty Benjamin Zephaniah and MOBO winning rapper Akala, plus more importantly trying to connect with all manner of people and audiences. Being played on Radio One last year gave Christian his ‘big’ break (not that big) and has led to wider recognition of what he does.
Writing is something Christian has never approached as a process, it’s the spontaneity and freedom that most appeals to him, particularly in poetry – he see’s it as a reflex reaction to the world, a perfect way to channel the emotion of everyday life. He has never been into classical or highly formal romantic poems. “I mean no one wanders as lonely as a cloud anymore, I like to maintain a raw, more accessible element that anyone can connect with, there shouldn’t be a barrier between the poet and reader. In three words, honesty is policy. The same with music. An industry wants a certain type of formula, but my advice is: be you, be creative and write because you love to, not because you want the fast buck” said Christian.[alert type=”yellow”]
Cobwebs of clotted memories murmur,
Worn walls the witness of long gone whispers,
Every echo, every echo – a choir
Of acquired joy and desperate sorrow.
Dust covered books look at crooked pictures
In rusty frames, condemned to fade away.
Stacks of old records, pressed together lay
Preserved, clutching on to one another
In a vinyl embrace, grey as Pompeii
The cold ash remains, a grave for old flames.
The ghostly white flag of a wedding dress
Surrenders to decay, silently boxed
In the coffin of a wooden wardrobe.
How To Deal With Dementia rests face down
Paralysed – its spine twisted where it fell.
Ink of a dying pen wrote a postet:
You forget what you want to remember
And remember what you want to forget.
Wide windows are misty eyed reminiscing
In winter, they glisten with tears of rain.
There’s a black and white vignette photograph
Of two young lovers, glowing with colour
With sunny smiles that crack open like dawn
Upon that warm morning of their marriage
A real relic of the passed, is it not?
Still living on, in the house that time forgot.[/alert]