Journeys and Star Gazing

True art is magic, and any true magic is art. With the touch of a pen, a brush, or even a finger, an artist—if aligned with the essence of their vocation—commands worlds both seen and unseen. Percy Shelley once declared that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” and though his words echo from an era long past, they feel uncannily prescient.

But what does this mean in practice? Some might argue that if poets and artists truly wield such power, they are the most woeful rulers ever to preside over humanity. After all, if art is shaping the world, why do the screens that dominate our lives churn out nothing but dissonance, despair, and empty spectacle? Is this dystopian noise truly the vision of today’s artists?

I imagine Shelley himself interrupting from the shadows of the ether: “Don’t be so literal! I meant it metaphorically. Art isn’t governance by laws; it’s governance by ideas, by imagination, by what transcends the mundane. But for heaven’s sake, don’t turn poetry into a cargo cult—worshipping its form as though it’s divine by nature rather than by what it creates within you.”

And yet, there’s a peculiar magic in this metaphorical cargo, in the words, images, and sounds that tumble into the open space of our minds. For those who see the world in myths and metaphors, art carries immense weight. It is both vessel and spell, weaving meaning from the chaos.

Take, for instance, the ancient stories we hold as sacred. The tumbling walls of Jericho. The resurrection of Christ. The creation of the universe in seven days. Do these stories endure because they are literally true, or because they resonate with something deeper—something ineffable? These tales are, above all else, poetry, built to inspire, to guide, to anchor us in moral or spiritual truth. Their magic is not in their factual accuracy but in their capacity to awaken a sense of wonder and move us toward the good.

In this sense, the Bible, like all great art, is a magical artefact. It is less a document of historical fact than a talisman, transmitting its moral and poetic energy across centuries. It scarcely matters whether Jesus of Nazareth held an identity card or walked among us as a historical figure. What matters is the poetic proof—the themes of redemption, sacrifice, and hope that compels us to strive for something greater.

Even today, this ancient poetry retains its power in a world awash with “meaning packages” from advertising slogans and clickbait soundbites. The cynicism of the modern world would have us believe that such stories are relics of the past, yet their resonance persists. True art, like true magic, touches something eternal. It reaches into the ineffable and makes it visible, if only for a moment.

But here’s the tension: if art is so powerful, why does it so often feel powerless in the face of modern chaos? The art world seems increasingly commodified, trapped in an endless cycle of trends, likes, and algorithms. It’s tempting to believe that the magic has been diluted, reduced to spectacle, or even silenced altogether. Yet, history reminds us that art’s power isn’t always loud or obvious.

Think of Picasso’s Guernica—a painting that “legislated” not through laws, but through the weight of its horror and the clarity of its vision. Or Maya Angelou’s poetry, which legislates even now, carving spaces for hope and resistance. True art doesn’t demand attention; it reshapes the world quietly, insistently, often long after it is created.

Art’s magic, much like a magician’s sleight of hand, often works unnoticed. It transforms us subtly, weaving itself into the fabric of our lives without our conscious permission. Consider a song that makes us weep, a novel that reframes the way we see the world or a photograph that stops us in our tracks. These are not passive objects; they are spells cast by creators who reached into the ineffable and returned with something transcendent.

The danger, as Shelley warned, lies in worshipping the artefact itself rather than the spirit it conjures. Too often, we mistake the form for the magic, clinging to what can be packaged, sold, or commodified. But art’s true power is never in the object—it’s in the transformation it invokes within us.

This is where the artist becomes a magician, conjuring meaning from raw material and shaping worlds from chaos. True art challenges the status quo not because it seeks to destroy but because it dares to create—to reimagine what is possible. The poet legislates not with authority but with imagination, reshaping the boundaries of what we believe to be true.

Even in today’s fractured world, art retains its quiet, ineffable power. The greatest works endure not because they are timeless, but because they speak to the timeless within us. Art—like magic—relies on the participation of its audience, on our willingness to suspend disbelief and step into the unknown.

So yes, art is magic, and magic is art. Both touch the eternal, both pull at the ineffable. And whether we realize it or not, both shape the worlds we inhabit. The artist’s hand, like the magician’s, is at work all around us—transforming, challenging, inspiring. The question is whether we are brave enough to recognize it.

==================================================================

The quote is from Percy Bysshe Shelley who said that “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.” This famous phrase comes from his essay A Defence of Poetry, written in 1821 but published posthumously in 1840.

“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle, and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.”