Cathy Crabb is a north-west based award winning writer and performer. She has written over 20 plays including- Beautiful House, Roots of Love, Fifteen Minutes With You, The Bubbler and Moving Pictures. Her plays, sketches and poetry have been performed at Contact, Theatre In the Mill, Royal Exchange, Lowry, Library Theatre, Green Room, The Black Lion, King's Arms, Lass O Gowrie and many site specific venues and pubs across the region. Current projects for 2012- The Bubbler embarks on a national tour of pubs. Dramaturgy for Contact Theatre's Christmas Show. Two living history pieces 'William Cuffay' and 'Baddies' run at the People's History Museum as part of their ongoing collections. 2013- Proud and Loud collaboration Beyond The Fourth Wall tours North West Enough Project (in conjunction with writer Emma Adams)is produced by Dep Arts, and tours North West She performs her poetry at spoken word events and facilitates workshops on poetry and playwriting.
Sewer Side- a canal barge trip from Castlefield Our mistake, We thought it would be informative. Oh, it was, Down the canal Slower than walking, Slowed our pulses, “Them slopes are where they use to drag thee ‘orses owt.” A ratting tableau, A man with a boy and a dog And a gun Shakes us up, “Y’can buy this bridge over head for a penny.” Snake’s skin shed From secret sex life Clings to industries arse, “You really can’t beat a trip down canal as an insight into this cities ‘istory.” You were consoled By the barge barman Who was under age And couldn’t add up, “Cheer up Cathy, here comes another of those depressing alcoves. Look, there’s some plastic bags and an old pram and oh look there, a dead drag queen, lovely.” An old stocking In charcoal grey Laddered By desperate ducks, Our mistake, We thought we could learn something About our city, Oh, we did. MY DADDY'S BEST GENES 'Keep it down!' But the bus driver couldn’t quieten his persona. He was an anthology of aromas. The urine and faeces he was born between had never left him. Bullied into a mumble he tapped away at the crust. He knows he’s in there somewhere. I hated him for living longer than my Dad. “It’s the trust that’s gone, my wife’s seventeen stone, she’d fucking kill another woman” Hundreds came to my Dad’s funeral. They drank till dawn in his pub. When I counted the tills I was crying laughing. He’d never done that well before on a Wednesday. “You’re getting into windows of your mind there kid, not really my thing.” My Dad misunderstood “Do not go gentle…” He thought it was about accepting death. When my brother read it out, it dawned on me. I keep forgetting to mention it. “She asked me where her keys were. I said how do I know? Me balls are made of gristle not crystal y’know?” Some spirit of stenches roams around Oldham. Trying to shake his brain awake. Somebody has his eyes and his smile. Another person is good at swimming like he use to be. “When I hear the birds outside, it reminds me of Grandad at the bungalow.” At home now I put my Daddy’s best genes to bowbies. I kiss the eyes I’m in goodnight. We haven’t got a heaven to help us sleep Or a hell to keep us awake. I think about the man on the bus. I hated him for living longer than my Dad. EPITAPH WRITTEN BY THE BAR MAID Lager than life At the bar on your thrown Fuck off and leave me alone Constantly burning holes in my head If looks could kill They'd have found me dead With a note which read "Smile love, it might never happen." Your beer's always flat Checking your change You predictable twat Spending your retirement Mithering me Till your lad came to get you for your tea But you died instead I said it would be ridiculous to have "Rocking all over the world" At your cremation And it was. Just letting you know your missed Wherever you are I hope your pissed. ODE TO FRINGE THEATRE The oily glitter in the gutter seeps songs into the soul Of the drowning bloodshot beggars who have slipped into the hole, Viruses and bruises cast a luminescent hue To the wilting writhing weeds still wretching songs out to the few, The choking flames illuminate the player’s grand debacle, Like crystals cracked and brittle grasp at every hint of sparkle, They drag regrets, bitterness and debts, Like knuckles on the floor, You would think we they had it all, but they still want more, It must be watched, it must be gazed upon, It must be seen and clapped and grazed upon, It must be laughed at, forged and gorged upon, It must be performed. Orifices filled and stretched, Fate on painted faces etched, It’s all the show has left to fetch, And it must be seen, So peel your blood sewn eyes, you fools! Shift and squirm upon your stools, Drink your poison in your pools, Watch hell’s molten as it cools Before your slaps and claps and drools; It must be seen, It must be watched it must be glared at, It must be witnessed must be stared at, Must be snorted, sneered and jeered at, Otherwise this brittle crawl, Has no fucking point at all! Get ready for the curtain call, It must, be, seen!
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
'Why don't you ever write poems about me?' (03/07/2013)
Or worse (30/04/2013)
The Last Word (25/03/2013)
My son's first love (31/01/2013)
In Debenhams (10/11/2012)
Posh Tramps (04/11/2012)
Blog link: http://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/cathycrabb
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