Introduction
Do you believe in magic?
A friend and I had been sleeping in a Sadhu’s tent near the Ganga river in the Indian city of Varanasi. We awoke to the clatter of a large man bursting in, followed by two others, all wearing fearsom expressions. Before any of us had lifted our heads, his voice boomed with his demands.
“Tell me what you put in that tea!” he yelled. “What kind of tantra have you done on me? Undo it!”
The word Tantra in this context literally means “scripture,” thought it is most often used to refer broadly to a group of texts and traditions. But he was referring to the use of a specific variety of text – one that allows the practitioner to attain magical or supernatural powers. In fact, when I lived amongst the Shaivite Sadhus of Varanasi, I most commonly heard the word “Tantra” used to mean, essentially, “Magic.”
The man had stopped by our Guru’s tent for tea the previous day, and had felt weird that night, as if he’d lost his energy. To put it another way, he had lost his mojo – and he believed it was because of my Guru’s magic.
Of course, he hadn’t done anything of the sort, and he eventually convinced the man of this – and helped him recover. But, later on, I would witness events that I could only describe with the word “magic.”
Whether you see magic as a literal force that influences your life or as a fantastical idea, there is no better way to describe it than through poetry.
Poems About Magic
Here are 15 of the best poems about magic, sourced from a variety of cultures, traditions, and poets, both ancient and modern. Included are poems about witchcraft, fairies, and enchanted woods, as well as the magic of love and the magic of awareness. If you enjoy these magic poems enough, perhaps you’ll consider practicing a little magic yourself. Maybe even by writing magical poetry.
“Her Kind” by Anne Sexton
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.
I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.
I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
-Anne Sexton
“Love is a Magic Ray” by Khalil Gibran
Love is a magic ray
emitted from the burning core
of the soul
and illuminating
the surrounding earth.
It enables us
to perceive life
as a beautiful dream
between one awakening
and another.
-Khalil Gibran
“Song Of A Dream” by Sarojini Naidu
Once in the dream of a night I stood
Lone in the light of a magical wood,
Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang;
And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang,
And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed,
And spirits of Peace were the streams that flowed
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
Lone in the light of that magical grove,
I felt the stars of the spirits of Love
Gather and gleam round my delicate youth,
And I heard the song of the spirits of Truth;
To quench my longing I bent me low
By the streams of the spirits of Peace that flow
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
-Sarojini Naidu
“The Magic of Awareness – Opening Poem” by Anam Thubten Rinpoche
Wonder,
Who has the magic to make the sun
appear every morning?
Who makes that bird on the elegant tree chirp?
Breath, pulse, music, dew, sunset,
The burning ambers of the fall.
There is unfathomable joy in all that.
Life is a stream.
It flows on its own.
No one knows why we are here.
Stop trying to figure out the great mystery.
The tea in front of you is getting cold.
Drink it.
Enjoy every drop of it.
And dance.
Dance until there is no more dancer,
It is the dance without dancer.
This is how great mystics dance.
-Anam Thubten Rinpoche
“Magic” by Louis Untermeyer
We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.
Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled
With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes
That never flinched or turned to compromise,
And “Luck,” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm,
Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm
In all of Maine could boast of; and away
He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay…
We walked on leisurely until a bend
Showed him once more, now working toward the end
Of one great path; wearing his eighty years
Like banners lifted in a wind of cheers.
Then we turned off abruptly—took the road
Cutting the village, the one with the commanding
View of the river. And we strode
More briskly now to the long pier that showed
Where the frail boats were kept at Indian Landing.
In the canoe we stepped; our paddles dipped
Leisurely downwards, and the slim bark slipped
More on than in the water. Smoothly then
We shot its nose against the rippling current,
Feeling the rising river’s half-deterrent
Pull on the paddle as we turned the blade
To keep from swerving round; while we delayed
To watch the curious wave-eaten locks;
Or pass, with lazy turns, the picnic-rocks….
Blue eels flew under us, and fishes darted
A thousand ways; the once broad channel shrunk.
And over us the wise and noble-hearted
Twilight leaned down; the sunset mists were parted,—
And we, with thoughts on tiptoe, slunk
Down the green, twisting alleys of the Kennebunk,
Motionless in the meadows
The trees, the rocks, the cows…
And quiet dripped from the shadows
Like rain from heavy boughs.
The tree-toads started ringing
Their ceaseless silver bells;
A land-locked breeze came swinging
Its censer of earthy smells.
The river’s tiny cañon
Stretched into dusky lands;
Like a dark and silent companion
Evening held out her hands.
Hushed were the dawn’s bravados;
Loud noon was a silenced cry—
And quiet slipped from the shadows
As stars slip out of the sky…
It must have been an hour more, or later,
When, tramping homeward through the piney wood,
We felt the years fly back; the brotherhood
Of forests took us—and we saw the satyr!
There in a pool, up to his neck, he stood
And grinned to see us stare, incredulous—
Too startled to remember fear or flight.
Feeling the menace in the crafty night,
We turned to run—when lo, he called to us!
Using our very names he called. We drew
With creaking courage down the avenue
Of birches till we saw, with clearing sight,
(No longer through a tricky, pale-green light)
Familiar turns and shrubs, the friendly path,—
And Farmer Boothby in his woodland bath!
The woods became his background; every tree
Seemed part of him, and stood erect, and shared
The beauty of that gnarled serenity;
The quiet vigor of age that smiled and squared
Its shoulders against Time … And even night
Flowed in and out of him, as though content
With such a native element;
Happy to move about a spirit quite
As old, as placid and as confident…
Sideways we turned. Still glistening and unclad
He leaped up on the bank, light as a lad,
His body in the moonlight dripping stars…
We went on homeward, through the pasture-bars.
-Louis Untermeyer
“Fairyland” by Rabindranath Tagore
If people came to know where my king’s palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king’s
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
-Rabindranath Tagore
“women are some kind of magic II” by Amanda Lovelace
i’m
pretty sure
you have
w i t c h c r a f t
running
through
those
v e i n s .
– women are some kind of magic II.
-Amanda Lovelace
“Singing Image of a Dream” by Kūkai (Kōbō Daishi)
A short sleep has millions of dreams.
Full of inconceivable pleasure and pain.
Hell and heaven are in the mind.
We wail, then sing. Only grief is left.
Facts in sleep are the fancies of dreams.
After waking we know they were the play of dreams.
We are long sleeping visitors in the dark room of basic ignorance.
There is so much weariness in this world.
Do not love blindly even the heavenly palace of magical powers.
Never stay in the prison of the Triple World.
Breathing in and out gives birth to our life.
We leave this world of earth and water as if to have a rest.
Perfect kings, aristocrats, and ministers
Prosper in spring, fall in autumn, and pass on like a stream.
Meditate deeply to know the very bottom of the mind.
Where the Great Mirrorlike Wisdom of Mahlivairocana shines infinite
virtue all around.
-Kūkai (Kōbō Daishi)
“The Wind on the Hills” by Dora Sigerson
Go not to the hills of Erin
When the night winds are about,
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep the danger out.
For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull you by the hand,
And they push you on the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.
And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years;
A year there is a lifetime,
And a second but a day,
And an older world will meet you
Each morn you come away.
Your wife grows old with weeping,
And your children one by one
Grow grey with nights of watching,
Before your dance is done.
And it will chance some morning
You will come home no more,
Your wife sees but a withered leaf
In the wind about the door.
And your children will inherit
The unrest of the wind,
They shall seek some face elusive,
And some land they never find.
When the wind is loud, they sighing
Go with hearts unsatisfied,
For some joy beyond remembrance,
For some memory denied.
And all your children’s children,
They cannot sleep or rest,
When the wind is out in Erin
And the sun is in the West.
-Dora Mary Sigerson
“Such Silence” by Mary Oliver
As deep as I ever went into the forest
I came upon an old stone bench, very, very old,
and around it a clearing, and beyond that
trees taller and older than I had ever seen.
Such silence!
It really wasn’t so far from a town, but it seemed
all the clocks in the world had stopped counting.
So it was hard to suppose the usual rules applied.
Sometimes there’s only a hint, a possibility.
What’s magical, sometimes, has deeper roots
than reason.
I hope everyone knows that.
I sat on the bench, waiting for something.
An angel, perhaps.
Or dancers with the legs of goats.
No, I didn’t see either. But only, I think, because
I didn’t stay long enough.
-Mary Oliver
“The Fairies” by William Allingham
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watchdogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with the music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of fig-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hillside,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For my pleasure, here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
-William Allingham
“Witches” by Fleassy Malay
In the past they burned us,
because they thought we were witches.
Just because we knew what to do with herbs outside of the kitchen.
Because we knew how to dance, seduce, pray.
Because we moved with the cycles of the moon…
-Fleassy Malay
“The Loreley” by Heinrich Heine
I do not know what haunts me,
What saddened my mind all day;
An age-old tale confounds me,
A spell I cannot allay.
The air is cool and in twilight
The Rhine’s dark waters flow;
The peak of the mountain in highlight
Reflects the evening glow.
There sits a lovely maiden
Above so wondrous fair,
With shining jewels laden,
She combs her golden hair
It falls through her comb in a shower,
And over the valley rings
A song of mysterious power
That lovely maiden sings.
The boatman in his small skiff is
Seized by a turbulent love,
No longer he marks where the cliff is,
He looks to the mountain above.
I think the waves must fling him
Against the reefs nearby,
And that did with her singing
The lovely Loreley.
-Heinrich Heine, translated by Ernst Feise
“The Work of Magic is This” by Rumi
The work of magic is this, that it breathes and at every breath transforms realities.
At one time it shows a man in the guise of an ass, (at another time) it makes an ass (look like) a man and a notable.
Such a magician is within you and latent: truly, there is a concealed magic in temptation;
(But) in the world in which are these magic arts, there are magicians who defeat sorcery.
In the plain where this fresh poison grew, there has also grown the antidote, O son.
The antidote says to you, “Seek from me a shield, for I am nearer than the poison to thee.
Her words are magic and thy ruin; my words are magic and the counter-charm to her magic.”
-Rumi, from the Mathnawi, verses 4074 & 4075. Retrieved and lightly revised from masnavi.net
“More of Cloyne” by Alfred Perceval Graves
Little sister, whom the Fay
Hides away within his doon,
Deep below you tufted fern
Oh, list and learn my magic tune.
Long ago, when snared like thee
By the Shee, my harp and I
O’er them wove the slumber spell,
Warbling well its lullaby.
Till with dreamy smiles they sank,
Rank on rank, before the strain;
Then I rose from out the rath
And found my path to earth again.
Little sister, to my woe
Hid below among the Shee,
List and learn my magic tune,
That it full soon
May succour thee.
