The Quiet Magic of the Poet
June 13, 2025
by Herb Hagell
Poet of the Quiet Verse
There are things I don’t entirely believe—
and yet, I do them anyway.
Sometimes, I light a candle before writing.
I reach for the same couple of mugs, chipped just so.
I open a window exactly halfway,
as if the breeze needs just the right invitation
to carry in the inspiration of the world outside.
I wear a hat: a Fedora, a cowboy hat, a beret.
None of it is necessary.
But it is mine.
And in that space between need and knowing,
a kind of magic happens.
✍️ The Poet’s Superstition
Not all superstitions come from old tales or omens.
Some are built over time—quietly, intimately—between a writer and the blank page.
We wouldn’t call them rules.
They’re more like agreements with self:
I show up with reverence,
setting the stage gently
and speak well of the Muse—
maybe the words
trust me enough to appear.
I don’t believe a poem will vanish if I use the wrong pen—
red ink on yellow paper is like blood of life.
Only that pen
can summon the truth,
the essence,
of my verse,
the bloodletting.
—From Only Red, Poet's Ritual
I’ve also deleted entire poems for “feeling wrong,”
when I feel that shiver in my spine.
We build our own Code.
Captain Barbossa in the Pirates of the Caribbean movie:
"...the Code is more what you'd call guidelines..."
Superstition isn’t always belief.
Sometimes, it’s just how we honour what’s hard to explain.
🌙 What We Still Whisper to the Dark
We’ve all been there:
- A black cat pauses mid-cross and you pause, too.
- You touch the wood of a table after saying something hopeful.
- You hesitate on Friday the 13th, not in fear—but in familiarity.
These are small, inherited habits letting us pretend we still have a say in mystery.
We all know that the seed of superstition is a story.
And as a poet, I live for mystery and story—
all artists do.
Superstition is a poetry of people—
The rituals we repeat not because we expect magic,
but because they let us believe something might listen,
and hope lives.
She lit the candle
not for light—
but for permission.
The dark answered
with warmth.
—From The Summoning
Even if we no longer believe the old stories, we remember them.
And in remembering,
we call,
we recreate.
“We whisper their names
into the wind—
a ritual,
a reckoning…”
—From To Light the Way Home
☀️ The Folklore of Summer
Summer brings its own whispers.
Stories float like pollen—ripe and sticky with half-truth and full wonder:
- Fireflies as omens of love.
- Thunderstorms that crack open fate.
- Solstice rituals that dare the sun to stay just a little longer.
I didn’t grow up in a world of formal folklore,
but I’ve watched people plant gardens by the moon,
tape coins to windowpanes,
and save the first strawberry for someone who’s gone.
Every solstice,
leave the window open.
Not out of grief—
but reverence.A rite of remembrance
wrapped in moonlight and flame.
—From Moon-Rite on the Solstice
I might find it noisy in modern lives,
but I keep story—quietly.
And poetry, I think, is how I carry it forward.
I don’t need to believe the world bends to my rituals.
But I do need space to say:
This matters, and I don’t want to forget it.
💭 Why It Still Matters
There’s a line I return to often—one of my own, scribbled in a quieter season:
I did not set out to conquer the fear.
I sat beside it.
—From Fear, Wisdom of the Quiet Muse
That, to me, is the heart of the poet’s superstition.
We don’t need to defeat uncertainty.
We just need to sit with it, light a candle, open a window—and write.
A toast to the whispered rituals.
To the fireflies and blue pens,
the moonlight and morning mugs.
To the poetry we inherit and the poetry we invent.
To all that we still whisper to the dark—
just in case something’s listening.
What’s your superstition, ritual, or story you keep returning to?
I’d love to hear it. Drop a note in the comments, or carry it with you into the season’s sun.
The Muse, after all, has always loved summer.
