An Opera Calls

I’m travelling to the City by train.

Going to see a BK Opera performance again.

My niece, a leading singer in the show.

And these carriages are gently swaying to-and-fro.

I’m arriving an hour early.

Doing so, quite deliberately.

As the venue’s a classic olden Hotel.

A bar to relax in, and have a spell.

Drink a boutique ale or two.

And some friendly chatter too.

A young lady, Julia, I meet.

She’s polite and sweet.

We shake hands and talk warmly.

Happily saying to me, she loves poetry.

And I offer her an Opera ticket free.

But alas, she’s about to take her leave.


Upstairs I go, soon the show’s to begin.

I’m eager to hear the young Soprano’s sing.

The Opera’s an unusual Production.

A lover’s tragic telephone conversation.

The four separate settings are of a Lady’s Boudoir.

Our singers attire, glossy gowns and silky nightwear.

There’s soft lighting, satin cushions and screens.

And the Opera is divided into four scenes.

In four Hotel rooms, with a Soprano Artiste’.

Our audience standing during each piece.

I’m transfixed, as the soloist sings.

And we applaud from the small room’s wings.

A most intriguing and wondrous show I’ve seen.

An Opera called, La Voix Humaine.


Ivor Steven.

Many thanks to Colleen of “chatter master”, for her helpful advice and encouragement. I found this piece difficult to explain and write the words. And attached here, the link to the details of BK Opera’s production of La Voix Humaine.


A Lesson from the Morning Star

A poem from F.G.M,,WORDS IN THE LIGHT, one of the most beautiful poems I’ve ever read. Hope you all enjoy his words as much as I did.


The world is my school
I said like a fool
and I questioned Mrs. Moon.

Do we have to reflect sunlight too?
“not necessarily”
She replied.

Then I asked Professor Sky.
Is there a way to fly?
“There is…” He said,

“…but not the one you think!”
So what is the main Lesson?
I whispered to the Morning Star.

“There are only three things
you need to know
before entering my Realm.

How to live. How to give
and above all,
how to forgive.”

Those were the words I heard
at the break of Dawn,
a Lesson from the Morning Star.

© Frédéric Georges Martin


illustration: Morning Star (Nicholas Roerich, 1932)

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Is There A Light

The cold morning frost, accompanies a winter’s dawn.

I’m snuggling warm in bed, wondering about the day ahead.

It’s Sunday, my home’s empty, a great void instead.

The cool quiet and the loneliness, are unbearable.


The passageway to my light is dark, and hard to feel.

If only I knew, the light at the end of the tunnel was real.

In this grotto of fading night, lying low, out of sight.

Where my dreams are false, waiting for another right.


Ivor Steven.

The Headmaster

Yesterday, I visited the old Headmaster, I enjoy his company, and his attitude for life, a ninety year-old, still wise and witty. We chatted as old friends do.

Shyly I told him, “I write poetry”

“That’s Interesting, I didn’t know, Ivor”

“Would you like to read my poems John”

“Certainly Ivor, I’d be happy to” he quickly replied.

I felt a little surprised that this old gentleman might want to read my humble writings, and until recent times, I have basically kept them to myself.

“I’ll drop off a folder of my poems later this afternoon”

“I shall take pleasure in reading them Ivor” The Headmaster said sincerely.

And in the afternoon, I eagerly head off to John’s place, and I duly arrive back there, folder firmly in hand.

“Here you are John” as I pass to him my poems.

“I’ll probably read them tonight” cheekily winking at me.

“Oh John, there’s no great rush, take your time”  I didn’t want to sound too pushy or over enthusiastic. He’s a man I hold in high regard, as he stands before me, tall and proud with that Headmaster’s aura of strength and nobility.

“Thank you Ivor for delivering your poems so soon”

“Goodbye for now John”  And we exchange a friendly handshake, and we smile at each other in quiet acknowledgement.


Today, I received a phone call, I recognised the voice, my Headmaster friend, and before I could say, hello, how are you, he’s reciting one of my poems to me over the phone, in his majestic and eloquent voice. The poem he’s reciting is “Everlasting Smile” and I dare not interrupt, I listen to his every word of my melancholic poem. He finishes and quickly remarks to me.

“I had to phone you Ivor, I just wanted to do that for you”

“John that was beautiful” I’m very teary, I’ve never had anyone recite a poem to me on the phone before, let alone one of my own.

“I’ve read them all Ivor” he exclaims

“And this one is my favourite”

By this time, I’m so glad it’s a phone call, and he’s not here beside me. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, I’m overcome, and as I tend to be, I’m totally emotional.

“John I’m lost for words, Thank you”  In my shaky state.

“My pleasure Ivor, you surprise me with your talent for words”

“And for an old plumber, they’re good” He’s sounding chirpy, and I’m smiling to myself.

“Thank you John”  again I say, as no more uttering’s come forth.

“Goodbye Ivor, it’s time for my glass of red wine” he quips to me.

“Enjoy my Friend, and Thanks John” haha, another thankyou is all I can say, and I’m happy he’s ended the conversation, I’m so very choked up. Sitting here, there’s a euphoric silence. How do I ever explain to him, that he’s just given me a most precious gift, that I shall treasure within heart forever more.

My Poem Everlasting Smile.

Ivor Steven



A Distant Ship

Am I afraid, or am I being slowly discouraged.

Dismayed by the emptiness of my beating heart.

Am I consumed, or am I being bodily starved.

Eaten by the cells of my inner sentiments.

Am I infatuated, or have I been possessed.

Devoured by the recess of my lonely soul.

Am I swimming after the impossible loveboat.

Drowning in the wake of a passing icebreaker.


Ivor Steven

Music Video: Provided to YouTube by Universal Music Group North America.


My Dragon, The Trilogy.


My Dragon.

A Monstrous Dragon, breathing fire.

Did arise from the gurgling mire.

Dark gangrenous green, from head to tails.

Claws blackened, sharp as nails.

Purple secretions, from his scaly chest.

A spear harpooned, a grizzly mess.

Nostrils ablaze, bloodied red.

Eyes seeping yellow maggot heads.

My Dragon’s crying, and nearly dead.

My Dragon, The Revival

My harpooned Dragon’s fallen and out of breathe.

Gazing around, pleading, near death.

The slayers spear, protrudes from his scaly vest.

And I quietly hear his soulful pounding chest.

Quickly, I plunge my sword, cutting shard.

Removing the spears horrid barb.

My Dragon exhales a fearsome howl.

Eyes Bulging, tears flowing down his jowl.

In agony, thrashing his spiky green tail.

Then slowly abating, like a windless sail.

Is he dying, lying there loudly groaning.

Nostrils snorting, neither afire nor smoking.

Suddenly, his left wing begins flapping.

And my Dragon’s head rises, stretching, arching.

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Left Over Dew

I know I’m far from perfect.

I make awful mistakes.

I know I’m overly loud.

I dominate and crowd.


I do have a big heart.

A soul so soft.

I do love to hold and to kiss.

To cuddle and caress.


I feel your reluctance.

Your barrier fence.

I feel like a fog over you.

Like the morning dew.


Will you ever need another.

Or love another.

Will you ever let me remain.

Or look for me again.


Ivor Steven.