I always liked the magic of poetry but now I'm just starting to

Hear, O seekers of truth, the voice of David Knopfler, who declared: “I always liked the magic of poetry but now I'm just starting to see behind the curtain of even the best poets, how they've used, tried and tested craft to create the illusion. Wonderful feeling of exhilaration to finally be there.” These words shine like a lantern, illuminating the path from wonder to understanding. They remind us that what once appeared as pure enchantment is, at its heart, the work of human hands, woven with patience, discipline, and skill. The mystery does not vanish when the curtain is lifted—it deepens, for we begin to see that the miracle of art is not only inspiration but also the mastery of craft.

For in youth, we often believe that poetry, or any art, descends upon the poet like lightning from the heavens. We hear the verses of Keats or Neruda and imagine them as unbidden gifts from the gods, flowing effortlessly from their pens. And indeed, there is a sacred element in art, a spark of divine fire. Yet as Knopfler reveals, even the most dazzling work of genius is shaped by careful hands, honed through trial and error, tested like iron in the forge. The illusion of spontaneity conceals the hidden architecture of rhythm, metaphor, and sound. To glimpse this hidden structure is not to diminish the wonder, but to taste a deeper exaltation.

Consider the sculptor Michelangelo, who gazed upon rough marble and proclaimed he saw angels trapped within it. To the crowd, the finished figure seemed miraculous, a revelation of beauty from stone. But behind the marble’s transformation lay countless blows of hammer and chisel, guided by years of discipline. The miracle lay not only in vision but in craft—the ability to carve away all that was unnecessary until the form emerged. So too with poetry: the reader feels the magic, while the poet labors in silence, testing words like notes of music, polishing until the illusion is complete.

This unveiling of the curtain can bring two kinds of response. Some feel disillusioned, believing that the mystery has been dispelled. But Knopfler shows us another way: exhilaration. To see the mechanics behind the wonder is to join the company of creators, to recognize that the sacred fire is not reserved for a chosen few. Any who study, who practice, who labor with heart and hand, may also touch the flame. The illusion becomes not deception but revelation—a sign that beauty is built, not merely bestowed.

The ancients understood this union of inspiration and craft. The Greek tragedians called upon the Muse, but they also obeyed the strict forms of meter and chorus. The Chinese poets of the Tang dynasty filled their verses with feeling, but always within the disciplined patterns of tones and rhymes. Inspiration was the seed, but form was the soil in which it grew. The curtain hides the effort, but without the effort there is no magic. Thus, to see behind it is to honor the truth: that the divine works through human hands.

What then is the lesson? Do not be content only to admire the magic of others. Pull aside the curtain. Study the works you love not only for their beauty but for their structure. Learn how rhythm is shaped, how imagery is sharpened, how silence itself becomes part of the song. Practice your own craft, even if your first attempts are clumsy, for every master once began in fumbling. To see the scaffolding of art is not to end wonder, but to enter into it more fully.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, take courage. Stand before the curtain, admire the show, and let it enchant you. But when the time comes, walk behind it, and see how the ropes are pulled, how the stage is lit, how the actors prepare. Learn from this hidden world, and then return to the stage yourself, carrying both the fire of inspiration and the strength of craft. For the greatest exhilaration is not only to witness the magic, but to become the one who creates it. This is the path Knopfler reveals: from wonderer to maker, from admirer to artist.