Poetry today—and what happened to magic?

Let’s be real for a moment.

What’s the practical use of poetry? Why learn it?

If we’re talking about magic, maybe there would be answers. But in today’s world, magic is fiction—at least, that’s what we say. The closest thing we have are tricks performed by magicians at birthday parties and celebrations. Maybe curses and supernatural things still exist somewhere, but if they do, they are rare… or well-kept from spreading.

So let’s say this as our working truth:

We all once knew how to use magic. Every one of us. We once held that capability—but something happened. And because of that, we lost both the ability and even most of our compatibility to use it.

Now, let’s return to the original question—but replace poetry with magic:

What’s the practical use of magic?

Why learn it?

With the technologies, innovations, and inventions we have today, magic would be obsolete anyway. So why bother?

The answer is wonder.

We learn it because we must honor what once was. More than that, we must understand the very soul of things.

Magic, as explained by a certain fictional instructor—Glenn Radars from Akashic Records of Bastard Magic Instructor—is about tugging at the very core of reality. The heart of things.

And in a way… poetry does the same.

I was also reminded of another fictional teacher—Professor Keating from Dead Poets Society. There is a scene that stayed with me—one that felt like it was speaking directly to me:

--

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion.

"Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.

“But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for. To quote Walt Whitman: ‘O me! O life! … of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish—what good amid these, O me, O life?’

“Answer: That you are here—that life exists and identity; that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

"That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."

---

I won’t repeat it here, but the feeling remains. That quiet realization—that we are here, that life exists, and that we are allowed to take part in it.

And then the question follows:

What will your verse be?

That question stayed.

Going back to magic and poetry, they share something in common: the heart, the existence, the very core—the soul.

Magic still exists in our daily lives, though it has become small… almost trivial. But it is still there. Have you noticed the small miracles that happen? Have you taken the time to see the quiet wonders around you?

That, too, is magic.

There are no spells anymore—but maybe there were never just spells to begin with. Maybe the real requirement was awareness.

And poetry is the same—but deeper.

It’s true that a red ball is bouncing.

But have you noticed who is bouncing it?

Who is with them?

What do their faces say?

Are they smiling—or are they tired?

Have you noticed the reflection in the child’s eyes?

Who is being reflected there?

And beyond that reflection… is there more?

This is the kind of magic we get to explore.

These are the things that give soul to what would otherwise just be lines and verses.

And if one can notice—truly notice—then one can also create.

So, for the sake of imagining:

If you were given the ability to use magic again, what would you do first?

What would be the first word you speak?

Would you even use words at all?

Or would it be like the characters in stories—casting without incantations, shaping things through pure intent?

But surely, there is something more than that.

And just like with poetry—

What will your verse be?

It’s not a simple question.

It feels more like a challenge.

Not just “I think, therefore I am.”

But something closer to:

I think… therefore there is.

Or something like that.

If I’ve made you think a little deeper than usual, then maybe something worked.

Maybe this is what poetry is now.

Not spells.

Not magic as we imagined it.

But something quieter.

Something that still reaches.

Something that still connects.

And if you felt even a small shift while reading this—

then maybe, in some way,

something was cast.

So again—

What will your verse be?

Brief History of Poetry

Much like everything else, there is history behind something—why it was made, how it was made, and why it even existed in the first place.

I won’t be digging too deep into that. I’m no historian, and learning poetry is more than just what happened in the past… somehow, in some sort of way.

But still, it’s fun to know a few bits of it.

Magic spells are words used to call forth powers to shape and alter reality. Magi, sages, and wise men used these words to do great things.

Of course, I wouldn’t really know—I’m just a fan of stories about magicians. I’m certainly not one.

So, poetry.

As discussed, poetry is words grouped into lines and verses that add soul to the ordinary.

Remember the red ball and how it bounced?

But why—or rather, how—did poetry come to be?

It began much like early history itself, with symbols and writings etched on rocks, stones, and glyphs. These were records of the past. But records are never only what is written and passed down.

In its earliest form, poetry lived as songs—sung by bards, traveling singers who earned a living by performing from place to place. They carried news from one town to another.

So in a way, it was like a news report—but less structured, and more like a tale, a story, a song.

At its simplest, the songs that tug at the heart are the ones most easily remembered, understood, and rewarded.

And yes—songs are poetry.

From these bards, the stories spread to the people who heard them. But as mentioned earlier, these were records—unwritten ones. And while unwritten stories are easier to spread, they don’t stay exactly the same.

To explain, think of a game children play.

They line up, and one person starts by doing a gesture that only the next person can see. That person passes it on to the next, and so on.

By the time it reaches the last person, it’s rarely the same as the original.

That is how stories travel.

And while poetry and stories are different, they are still both forms of art.

Poetry uses lines and verses. Stories use sentences and paragraphs.

But both follow structure—nouns, verbs, descriptions, pauses, and rhythm. They are not as different as they seem.

Going back—have we talked about the history of poetry?

Tales passed from bards, shared as songs, carried by people, and retold again and again.

As these stories travel, they begin to change.

They grow.

They stretch.

A simple moment becomes something greater.

A king jumping over a small crack in the ground… becomes a king flying over a great cliff.

And this is how stories—and poetry—transform over time.

They are remembered not just as they were… but as they were felt.

So poetry began not as something written, but as something spoken, sung, and shared.

And later on, when people felt the need to go beyond the restraining structures of grammar, poetry took form.

Why go beyond the rules dictated by grammar?

It’s simple.

Poetry is putting into words what cannot simply be contained by words.

It is coining terms, performing great feats, conjuring the very essence of magic—even without truly being able to.

That is poetry.

Have I not mentioned it already, or have you not heard it said before?

Poetry is putting life into the ordinary.

It is putting soul into the common.

It is making the simplest of things feel grand.

In essence…

isn’t that magic?

Introduction to Poetry

Before we begin, we must first realize that poetry is much like a magic spell.

It is composed of verses—the paragraphs of a poem—and lines—the sentences of poetry.

Now, let us return to the idea of poetry as a spell.

Much like magic, poetry is a careful arrangement of words—incantations, chants, quiet conjurations—that do something. At least, in the reality we inhabit.

At its most basic, a poem allows the reader—the target of the spell—to see what the poet wishes them to see.

But what if I simply say: red ball?

Does that not already create an image?

Yes—it does.

In its simplest form, that is poetry.

But poetry is meant to be more. That is why it is akin to magic.

Instead of red ball, I could say:

A spot large enough to swallow the world in crimson.

Tell me—what do you see?

If you still see a red ball, then the spell has worked, and you, the reader, were my intended target.

So why make it longer? Why not just say it plainly?

Because in doing so, you would lose the magic.

Spells are meant to be fun—mysterious, discreet. They may be long or short, direct or indirect. But what makes poetry magic is this:

It gives life to what is ordinary.

A red ball is just a red ball—if you allow it to be.

Or perhaps…

It is what a child, bewitched by crimson hue, sends bouncing across the world.

Now the red ball is no longer still.

It moves.

You do not yet see the child—but you see the motion.

Can you picture it?

The way it rises and falls…

The elasticity as it strikes the ground…

Tell me—what color is the ball?

Magic.

Now you see it.

The red ball is bouncing.