How Deep Is My Well

In the hush before dawn, the poet’s desk waits — ink, paper, and silence mingling with the faint hum of a song. “Last Rites” plays softly, and the night’s spell lingers just long enough to ask: how deep is my well?



How Deep Is My Well


Inside my pastel grey cell,
where the poet’s pencils dwell,
I stumbled over the inkwell
and felt a dank, dark swell
run down my silk lapel.

“Help!” I yell.
My cocoon’s inner shell
has become as black as hell.

“Please! Ring the hotel bell
Perhaps the night-shift personnel
will know how to quell
this bewitching writer’s spell.”



From here, the ink settles… and this song becomes the last whisper of the night.



Ivor Steven ©  September 2026

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ivor20

G'day, and welcome to my blog site. My name is Ivor Steven, I live in Geelong, Australia. I'm an ex-industrial chemist, and a retired plumber, and a former Carer of my wife(Carole), for 30 years, who suffered from severe MS. I Write poetry about those personal thoughts, throughout and beyond my life as a Carer. I've been blogging for over 2 years, and writing poems for 19 years. Of course a lot of my poems are about my favourite subject Carole, but since I've been blogging my writings have become quite varied, humourous, mystical, observational, and even a few monster/horror poems.

21 thoughts on “How Deep Is My Well”

  8. An inkwell stumbled into at dawn, ink running down silk like the night itself bleeding into daylight. ‘How deep is my well?’ and Ivor, you’ve answered it perfectly. Deep enough to stain everything it touches, dark enough to become ‘as black as hell,’ persistent enough to need the night-shift staff to help you quell it. That’s a poet’s well right there. Beautiful. 💙
    / Love & Hugs / Khadija 💕🤗

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    1. Thank you so much for appreciating my introspective poem about writing poetry deep into the darkest hour of the night … however, at 75, best I curtail this wearying bad habit, Khadija 🥰📝😎🌏🌒

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