Alchemy is the art of far and near, and I think poetry is

“Alchemy is the art of far and near, and I think poetry is alchemy in that way. It’s delightful to distort size, to see something that’s tiny as though it were vast.” Thus speaks Robert Morgan, unveiling the secret kinship between the forgotten science of transformation and the eternal art of words. For just as alchemy sought to change base metal into gold, so does poetry transform the ordinary into the extraordinary, the small into the infinite, the near into the eternal. In these words, Morgan reminds us that the poet’s task is not merely to describe, but to transmute.

The meaning of this vision lies in the act of transformation. Alchemy was never only about gold; it was about perception, about seeing the hidden potential within the unremarkable. So too with poetry: a raindrop becomes an ocean, a blade of grass becomes a cathedral, the briefest glance becomes eternity. The poet distorts size, not to deceive, but to awaken. By magnifying the tiny, he shows us its grandeur; by shrinking the vast, he reveals its intimacy. Through this art, we are taught that all things contain wonder if only we learn to see them rightly.

Consider the story of William Blake, who wrote of “seeing a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wildflower.” Blake was no chemist, but an alchemist of vision. To him, a speck of dust could be a universe, and a human face could reflect eternity. This was no exaggeration—it was the unveiling of a truth hidden beneath the veil of habit. Like Morgan, Blake knew that poetry distorts not to lie, but to reveal the immeasurable within the measurable.

The origin of Morgan’s words rests also in the heritage of alchemy itself, that ancient pursuit where men searched not only for gold but for wisdom. Alchemists spoke of the “as above, so below,” the belief that the tiny mirrored the vast, the earthly reflected the cosmic. What they sought in crucibles, poets seek in words: to bind far and near, to show that the microcosm contains the macrocosm. Thus Morgan, inheriting this ancient vision, sees poetry as a continuation of alchemy by other means.

This truth brings us to a lesson of perception. Most of us pass through the world blind to the splendor of the small. We think greatness belongs only to the towering and the grand. But the poet reminds us: what is small may contain the vast. A child’s smile may outweigh an empire’s triumph. A fleeting moment may hold more eternity than years of toil. To see in this way is to live with wonder, and wonder is the beginning of wisdom.

History also gives us the example of Galileo, who, through his telescope, took the tiny speck of light in the sky and revealed it to be a world with mountains and craters. He distorted size, but in doing so, he restored truth. Like a poet, he showed that what seemed small and distant was vast and near. The same courage of vision is what poetry demands: the willingness to see differently, to risk the laugh of others, and to proclaim that the universe lies hidden in the overlooked.

The practical teaching is this: practice alchemy of vision in your own life. When you see something small—a leaf, a gesture, a fleeting word—ask yourself what vastness it might contain. When you face something large—a fear, a task, a sorrow—dare to shrink it with words, until it can be held in your hand. Write, speak, or simply notice with care, and you will begin to live as both alchemist and poet, finding gold where others see only dust.

Thus, let the teaching endure: poetry is alchemy, and every soul can practice it. To see far in the near, to see vastness in the tiny, is to live with vision. And the one who learns this art will never again be blind to beauty, for they will carry in their sight the golden truth—that the infinite is always hidden within the finite, waiting for the poet’s gaze to bring it forth.