I was excited to see the piece on the culture show on your production 'Juliet and her Romeo'.
I thought you might be interested to read my poem 'A love song for pysche and cupid,' which is set in a care home.
The poem was set to music by the composer Silvina Milstein and sung by Jane Manning with the English piano trio on Valentines day, 1995 at King's on the strand.
I wish you all the very best for the production.
Yours Sincerely,
Caroline Smith.
A love song for psyche and cupid
For Silvina
Venus had stabbed the puffed thin skin of her young love,
burnt it black like potatoes
sighed and deflated.
Left alone
On the top storey
Of Morlock Court
Wyn Boiling had come into the old folks home
To share the warmth of bed pans
And perimeters of walking frames.
By day she sat
In the silent laager of chairs,
Wedged bag on her lap,
Long beige stockinged legs
Slanted sidewards like a deer
Hiding in the scar
Of grey pollarded trees
Then, as the red-fox light of evenings stole over their gouted breathing night shapes,
They were turned into an enchanted forest of majestic trees.
She found herself in a beautiful palace
Where a bird of brilliant plumage
Spoke to her from its gilded cage.
Four cooks prepared her lavish meals.
In time a courtier would lead her to her bath.
At night, after they had been put to bed,
The God of love himself
Would come again to her.
he stood before her door,
Legs bent, slightly stooping over his stick,
His loose hand knocking lightly
Against the door to her chamber-
His long drooped face
Requesting an audience.
In the yellow night light,
By the call-button cord,
In the deep rift of the narrow bed,
They maneuvered together.
Her fingers felt out the soft hollow of his stomach
With its raised moles and single tough hairs,
Like sedges stalking out into a quiet fen.
On, down into the tangled thicket of bracken
Catching her jeweled fingers in its strong roots,
Prising free from its nest
A log, long lain in damp beech leaves;
Digging him out from the crease of his old trousers.
They were wet as red mellow wood,
Slimy as leather,
Fruit rotted together on the forest floor.
She had become Venus herself,
Fiercely in love with her old beauty
And her ripened fruit
She named pleasure.
Caroline Smith.
Thistles of the Hesperides, Flambard Poetry.
For Silvina
Venus had stabbed the puffed thin skin of her young love,
burnt it black like potatoes
sighed and deflated.
Left alone
On the top storey
Of Morlock Court
Wyn Boiling had come into the old folks home
To share the warmth of bed pans
And perimeters of walking frames.
By day she sat
In the silent laager of chairs,
Wedged bag on her lap,
Long beige stockinged legs
Slanted sidewards like a deer
Hiding in the scar
Of grey pollarded trees
Then, as the red-fox light of evenings stole over their gouted breathing night shapes,
They were turned into an enchanted forest of majestic trees.
She found herself in a beautiful palace
Where a bird of brilliant plumage
Spoke to her from its gilded cage.
Four cooks prepared her lavish meals.
In time a courtier would lead her to her bath.
At night, after they had been put to bed,
The God of love himself
Would come again to her.
he stood before her door,
Legs bent, slightly stooping over his stick,
His loose hand knocking lightly
Against the door to her chamber-
His long drooped face
Requesting an audience.
In the yellow night light,
By the call-button cord,
In the deep rift of the narrow bed,
They maneuvered together.
Her fingers felt out the soft hollow of his stomach
With its raised moles and single tough hairs,
Like sedges stalking out into a quiet fen.
On, down into the tangled thicket of bracken
Catching her jeweled fingers in its strong roots,
Prising free from its nest
A log, long lain in damp beech leaves;
Digging him out from the crease of his old trousers.
They were wet as red mellow wood,
Slimy as leather,
Fruit rotted together on the forest floor.
She had become Venus herself,
Fiercely in love with her old beauty
And her ripened fruit
She named pleasure.
Caroline Smith.
Thistles of the Hesperides, Flambard Poetry.
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