This poem draws its inspiration from an African proverb that says, “Two waterfalls never hear each other.”
I was struck by the depth hidden in this simple image—two magnificent forces of nature, once part of the same river, now separated by their own fall, unable to hear one another’s song. In that silence, I saw a reflection of human relationships; how love begins in oneness, flows with shared rhythm, but sometimes diverges under the weight of ego and pride.
Through this poem, I’ve interpreted the proverb in my own way exploring the journey from unity to separation, from murmurs to silence, and the quiet hope of returning to oneness once again.
Two Waterfalls
Far away, where we began together, in love—a single source of oneness— we flowed through the ebbs and surges, with tender fervor, listening to each other’s murmurs, singing the symphony of our sacred love, a gushing river as one.
Until— a boulder of burdened egos split our course, and we fell apart, twin waterfalls unable to hear each other.
From afar, onlookers romanticize our separate cascades, never knowing the lost murmurs, the silenced whispers we once shared.
Yet— as time bends and wisdom softens stone, perhaps the river will return us, closer, where ego’s rocks are shattered and silence sings again— a single symphony, a gushing river, flowing as one.
This poem was born out of one of those restless moments when my mind wouldn’t stop ticking through endless lists—things to do, goals to meet, lessons to learn.
I remember pausing midway through a busy day and wondering: When does the soul really rest in peace? Is peace something we wait for at the end of life, or something we can find in the middle of chaos, while we’re still breathing and learning to be?
Here’s my poetic take on the idea. Let me know your thoughts in the comments section.
Teach me today. In the now. While I'm still alive. While breath binds with my busy-ness— racing and pacing behind the checklists and wishlists.
Teach me now, in this moment. Tell me— how does a soul rest in peace? Is it when all the boxes on all the lists are ticked before the ticking heart stops? Or is it when one stops to listen to the heart, with no regard for the ticks— checked or unchecked? Or is it in that moment of epiphany— when both the ticking heart and the tailing lists are illusions not worth brooding over?
Is life just a play of pretend? If yes, how do I play it well— in pretending to know or knowing not to pretend but simply play along?
Tell me now, teach me now— in this very moment, this very breath— while there's still a thread of sanity. When does a soul rest in peace? Is it only after death, or when there's nothing left to tick, no fear of leaving behind, no fear of being left behind?
Why don’t people say to the living, “May your soul rest in peace”? Does peace mean silence? End? A full stop? Nothingness? Is the soul only identified at death? Don’t we all long for peace? If yes, does that mean we long for aimless nothingness— a kind of death no one speaks of after experiencing, and no one experiences while still speaking?
You wish only for the dead that their soul rest in peace. But isn’t that what we all want? Or does our fallacy lie in reserving peace only for the time of death?
Tell me now, while I am still breathing— would you wish my soul to rest in peace... or not?
For me, writing has always felt like a luxury. It’s a privilege not many with a background like mine easily get. That’s why I treat it with a little extra tenderness. I don’t always have long, uninterrupted hours, so I write in pockets of time.
It usually starts while I’m finishing up my domestic chores. In the middle of folding clothes or stirring a pot, I’m also emulsifying ideas in my head. That’s when I let thoughts swirl, dance, and take shape.
Sometimes, this daydreaming stirs up a sudden spark, that restless urge to write immediately. But instead of dropping everything, I let it fuel me to finish my mundane tasks faster. And when I finally sit down to write, it feels less like a burden and more like a reward. That shift alone has made writing flow so much easier for me.
Over the past week, I’ve been experimenting with a 15-minute timer method I came across in a writer’s group, and it’s worked like magic.
Things I’ve Learned Using the 15-Minute Timer
Sacred me-time → Once you start the timer, don’t pause it. Protect those 15 minutes.
No timer-checking → Let it beep when it’s done. Keep your eyes on the page, not the clock.
Easy access → Keep your writing medium handy. I use the Notes app or a rough diary; no pressure, just space to spill.
No editing while writing → Typos are fine. Forgetting a word is fine. Just keep moving; add a dash or a placeholder. You can polish later.
Even if words don’t flow → Just sit. Don’t fidget with the timer, don’t go idea-hunting. Sit with yourself. Silence can stir the subconscious.
Idea bank → Keep a running list of titles or gist-lines. When the timer starts, just pick one and go. Choosing doesn’t count in the 15 minutes.
Flow state? Keep going! → If you’re in the groove when the timer rings, allow yourself to continue.
Celebrate messy drafts → Half-written posts, random lines, “shitty first drafts”, they all count. The point is to begin.
This method has changed the way I look at writing. Earlier, the thought of sitting for an hour at a stretch felt daunting, almost impossible. But breaking it down into tiny, doable pockets of time makes it so much lighter. And later, when I return to edit, it feels “easy peasy.”
The beauty is that these 15-minute pockets can be found anywhere, while waiting for my daughter, at the dentist’s office, or during travel. Sometimes, I even use voice notes that get transcribed automatically, and I realise I get so much more down that way.
So yes, for me right now, it’s 15 minutes, timer for the win.
I wrote this poem after coming across one of Blogchatter’s earlier prompts about capturing awkwardness while facing a camera to make reels. Especially that strange, self-conscious feeling when the camera starts rolling. It instantly reminded me of my own attempts at making videos.
You know, that moment when you hit “record” and suddenly forget how to smile, speak, or even exist naturally. What was supposed to be a few seconds of effortless charm often turns into thirty takes of flailing hands, glitching smiles, and existential stares into the ring light. This poem is my playful take on that chaos, the art of being “natural” online.
I click "record" and forget my face— is this my left or is it better left unseen? My smile glitches like bad Wi-Fi, hands flailing like I’m summoning ghosts. I lip-sync with the enthusiasm of stale toast, while my eyebrow auditions for a solo career. The ring light glares like a disappointed parent. My dog walks in, judges me, exits stage left. Thirty six takes later, I post— captioned: "Just being natural"
When I was a child, I loved doodling, playing with colours, and crafting without worrying about how it would turn out or how Instagrammable it would look. I didn’t think about whether it could earn me a penny, become a business, or fit into any philosophy of what “art” should be. I never asked if my work was sustainable or eco-friendly.
The only thing that mattered then was the joy of creating. The only interruption? My Amma yelling a bit about the mess I made around the house but that too was part of the game. And it was aaaaaaaaaaaallllllllll worth it when I got to see my finished work: good, bad, or gloriously ugly.
“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” – Pablo Picasso
Back then, I felt joy—pure, unfiltered joy—just being immersed in creating something, whether it turned out the way I imagined or not. I felt proud whenever I had something I’d made from scratch. I simply tried, without seeking validation, likes, or hearts.
But somewhere along the way, growing up changed that. Hobbies became content. Creativity turned into a checklist: Is it aesthetic? Insta-worthy? Can it earn something? And slowly, the joy faded under the weight of those expectations. My interest in creating began to slip away not because I didn’t love it anymore, but because I was subconsciously trying to give it “value” that others could see.
But the thing is, the moment you start judging your art, you stop making it for yourself.
It took me years to realize that the real value of art lies not in its product but in its process—in the effort, in the flow, in the quiet joy of losing yourself to something you love. It’s about becoming one with what you create, about that mindful stillness that only comes when your hands are busy and your heart is light.
And once that truth hit me, there was no stopping. I went back to scraps and bits, to junk journaling, to binding papers into journals, to making poetry zines, to splashing colours just for the fun of it. Art came back, not as a hustle, but as healing.
“Art is not a thing; it is a way.” – Elbert Hubbard
The comeback art is here to stay, and this time, it’s not here to impress but to express. To play, to breathe, to simply be.
Let’s not pretend we don’t know each other. You’ve been that uninvited guest who shows up without notice, overstays your welcome, and leaves a mess behind. For the longest time, I let you sit around, take up space, and even believed your lies that I couldn’t write.
According to Oxford Languages, you’re “the condition of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing.” Sounds polished, almost respectable. But honestly? I’ve come to believe you’re either a scam or proof that someone hasn’t yet found their rhythm as a writer.
And before you take offence, let me confess—I’ve been your loyal subscriber. I’ve blamed you for my half-written drafts, delayed posts, and that long list of “to-publish” pieces quietly sitting in my drive. You made it easy for me to say, “Oh, I have writer’s block,” instead of admitting I was afraid, uncertain, or simply distracted.
But things began to shift when I noticed something. Even on days I told myself I wasn’t writing, I was still writing. Maybe not on paper, but definitely in my head. I was collecting ideas, processing emotions, scribbling lines on my phone, and underlining words in books that stirred something in me. I was living as a writer, just without pressing publish.
That’s when I realised that you’re a scam. Not even a myth, just a well-marketed excuse. Writers talk about you, glorify you, and secretly hide behind you when fear takes over. I know because I did exactly that. You gave me comfort when I didn’t want to face my own resistance.
And if by any chance you’re not a scam, then maybe I’ve simply outgrown you. Because a real writer, I’ve learned, doesn’t wait for perfect words. We write when the sentences stumble, when the metaphors don’t click, when the page looks unimpressed. We read, rewrite, pause, and return. We collect pieces of the world quietly until one day, everything starts flowing again.
So, dear Writer’s Block, this is my official goodbye. Thank you for showing up when I needed someone to blame. But I don’t need you anymore. This time, words have returned with conviction, with clarity, and with the calm of someone who knows she was never really blocked… just becoming.
With affection (and a hint of relief), A Writer Who Finally Stopped Waiting for You
It felt like I was married to one and having an affair with another, and it was hard to accept the truth or let go of either. Before you jump to conclusions, I’m talking about my marriage with Math and my love affair with writing.
Having graduated with a master’s degree in Math, I had dreams of becoming a mathematics professor. I even worked as a Math SME and tutor for college students for a few years. So, when life took a turn and I became a blogger and poetry customizer, it felt… weird (for lack of a better word).
My autoimmune condition demanded that I slow down, and the brain fog that came with it made teaching harder than before. Writing, on the other hand, became my refuge—my way of processing and expressing. Even when it wasn’t public, it lent a quiet shoulder to lean on. Little did I know, I had been in love with writing all along.
My amma often recalls how, even at the age of five, I would scribble and sign my name across pages of notebooks or any random scrap of paper I could find. She used to joke that I’d make a good stenographer someday. None of us knew I’d end up becoming a writer, least of all me. But now, looking back at all my childhood essays, the journals I still hold dear, and even the random bus tickets and tissue papers I scribbled on and secretly saved, I realise I was born in love with words: their sound, their shape, the meanings they hold, the silences they evoke, and the music they create. I just hadn’t taken them seriously… until now.
So, after years of being married to Math, officially committing to writing came with its share of guilt trips and self-doubt. Even until a few months ago, whenever someone asked about my profession, my answer kept changing—“freelancer,” “I write customised poetry for gifts,” “I translate research papers”—but never simply, writer.
The reason? I didn’t have a structured education or certification in writing. The irony? Everyone else already saw me as one. My clients were returning clients. My friends and family referred others to me for writing assignments.
It was only recently after reading a testimonial from a client who’s trusted me with poetry gift orders for over ten years, that I realised something important: I’ve sustained and grown in this field for a decade, without any advertising. That’s a success I hadn’t seen for myself, but others had seen all along.
That testimonial, with its mention of ten years, was my aha moment —an epiphany soon followed by enrolling in Bound’s publishing course, which finally helped me move toward an official marriage with writing.
Now, if you’re wondering whether that means I’ve broken up with Math, no, not at all. We’ve reconciled. In fact, through my writing, I plan to explore Math too. It’s no longer a case of a secret affair—it’s more like a beautifully balanced equation where both sides finally make sense.
And this time, words returned with conviction, not as a passing muse, but as a lifelong partner I’m finally ready to acknowledge.
இது பல நேரங்களில் ஒரு படைப்பாளியின் உள்ளே எழும் கேள்வி. கலை என்றால் என்ன? படைப்பு எதற்காக? அதன் பயன் என்ன?
என்ன படைத்தாலும் — “இதனால் என்ன பயன்?” என்று தன்னைத் தானே அடிக்கடி கேட்கும் தன்மை ஒரு படைப்பாளிக்கே உரியது. எனக்கும் இப்படிப்பட்ட சந்தேகங்கள் பல முறை தோன்றும். ஆனால் சில சமயம் அமைதியாக உட்கார்ந்து சிந்திக்கும் போது பதில் கிடைக்கும்; சில வேளைகளில் பிறருடன் உரையாடும் போதும் வெளிப்படும்.
அப்படி எனக்குத் தோன்றிய பதில் இதுதான்:
கலை என்பது மனிதரின் உள்ளுணர்வையும், உணர்ச்சிகளையும், சிந்தனைகளையும் வெளிப்படுத்தும் ஒரு வழி. அது ஓவியம், இசை, நடனம், எழுத்து, சமையல், தோட்டம்—எதுவாகவும் இருக்கலாம். வெளியுலகத்துடன் பேசாமலேயே “நான் யார், நான் எப்படி உணர்கிறேன்” என்பதைக் காட்டிக் கொடுக்கும் பாசாங்கற்ற மொழி தான் கலை.
சிலருக்கு கலை ஒரு ஆசை; சிலருக்கு அது ஆதாரம்; சிலருக்கு அடையாளம். ஆனால் யாருக்குமே அது “உள்ளிருந்து வெளியில் பாயும் உயிரின் ஓசை” போலவே இருக்கும்.
இது என்னுடைய அபிப்பிராயம். ஆனால் மனதில் எப்பொழுதும் மற்றவர்களின் பார்வையில் கலை என்னவாக இருக்கும், ஒரு கலைஞரின் சிந்தனை, படைப்பு, செயல்முறை எப்படிப்பட்டது, எல்லா கலைஞர்களும் புரிந்துகொள்ளப்படுகிறார்களா, அங்கீகரிக்கப்படுகிறார்களா என்ற கேள்விகள் எழுந்துகொண்டே இருக்கும்.
அப்படிப் பட்ட ஆர்வத்தில்தான் இந்த “கலையும் கலைஞரும்” என்ற தொடரின் யோசனை உருவானது. இது தமிழ் மற்றும் ஆங்கிலத்தில் வெளியாகும் மாதாந்திரத் தொடர். இதன் மூலம் கலை, கலைஞர்கள், அவர்களின் சிந்தனைகள், செயல்முறைகள் மற்றும் தத்துவார்த்தங்களை அறியும் ஒரு பயணம் அமையும்.
அந்தப் பயணத்தின் முதல் அத்தியாயமாக— எனக்கு முதல் கலையாகவும் முதல் கலைஞராகவும் தோன்றிய, இன்னமும் தினமும் என் வாழ்வில் தோன்றிக்கொண்டிருக்கும் என் அம்மா, திருமதி லக்ஷ்மி ஸ்ரீனிவாசன் அவர்களுடனான உரையாடல் இதோ உங்கள் முன்னே.
அம்மா, உங்கள் அபிப்ராயத்தில் கலை என்றால் என்ன?
அம்மா: “அரிது அரிது, மானிடராய் பிறத்தல் அரிது” என்று அவ்வையார் சொன்னார். கடவுள் கொடுத்த இந்த மனிதப் பிறவி தான் மிகப் பெரிய கலை. நல்ல தேகத்தைக் கொடுத்து பிறக்க வைத்ததே வாழ்வின் முதல் கலை.
அதற்குப் பிறகு, நம்மைச் சுற்றியுள்ள ஒவ்வொரு விஷயமும் கலைதான். காலை எழுந்து சுவாசிப்பது, ஒரு நிம்மதி அடைவது, வாசலில் கோலம் போடுவது, சமையல் செய்வது — இவை அனைத்துமே கலை. அன்போடும் ஆனந்தத்தோடும் பார்த்தால், வாழ்க்கையே மிகச்சிறந்த கலை.
இயற்கையில் உங்களுக்கு எப்படி கலை தெரிகிறது?
அம்மா: கடவுள் படைத்த உலகமே கலை. ஒரு புல், ஒரு பூச்சி, எறும்பு — எதைப் பார்த்தாலும் அதில் அற்புதம் இருக்கிறது. ஒரு வெள்ளரி பிஞ்சு தான் முதிரும் சமயம் அறிந்து கொடியிலிருந்து விடுபட்டு கொள்வதும்எறும்பு மழை வரப்போகிறதென்று உணர்ந்து தன் உணவைச் சேமிப்பது கூட கலை தான்.
ஒரு தாயின் கருவறையில் பத்து மாதம் குழந்தை வளர்வது எவ்வளவு அழகான கலை! பிறப்பு, மரணம் — எப்போது, எப்படித் திடீரென்று நடக்கிறது என்பதை யாராலும் சொல்ல முடியாது. அந்த அதிசய சக்தியே கடவுள், அதுவே கலை.
உங்கள் வாழ்க்கையில் கலை என நீங்கள் மதிப்பது என்ன?
அம்மா: வாழ்க்கை வாழ்வதற்கே. அதை அழகாக அனுபவித்து, தானும் மகிழ்ந்து, மற்றவர்களுக்கும் மகிழ்ச்சி கொடுக்க வேண்டும். எந்த எதிர்பார்ப்பும் இல்லாமல், “சர்வம் கிருஷ்ணார்ப்பணம்” என்ற மனநிலை வந்தால், அதுவே வாழ்வின் அழகான கலை.
பிரபலமானவர்கள் தான் கலைஞர்கள் என்று பலர் நினைக்கிறார்கள். அவர்களுக்கு நீங்கள் என்ன சொல்லுவீர்கள்.
அம்மா: என்னை பொறுத்தவரை கடவுளால் படைக்கப்பட்ட ஒவ்வொருவரும் கலைஞரே. எந்த எதிர்பார்ப்புமின்றி, அன்போடு செய்யும் செயல் அனைத்துமே கலை தான்.
நீங்கள் செய்யும் ஒவ்வொரு வேளையிலும் நேர்த்தியும் அழகும் வழிந்தோடுகிறது. தொட்டதெல்லாம் கலையாக மாறுகிறது. எழுத்து, சமையல், தோட்டக்கலை, கோலமிடுவது , எல்லாமே…ஆனால் இன்றைய காலத்தை போல் எதையும் உடனுக்குடன் வெளியுலகிற்கு புகைப்படம் எடுத்து காட்டியதே இல்லை …மேலும் எதில் இருந்தும் பொருள் ஈட்ட முயன்றதில்லை …எப்படி எந்த ஒரு வருமானமோ எதிர்பார்ப்போ இல்லாமால் அனைத்திலும் ஈடுபாடுடன் செய்ய முடிகிறது ?
அம்மா: அதற்க்கு காரணம் பொறுமை. அதற்க்கும் மேலாக கலையை கலைக்காகவே பார்ப்பது. அப்படி எந்த வித எதிர்ப்பார்ப்பும் இல்லாமல், முழு மனதுடன் எந்த ஒரு வேலையை நேர்த்தியாக செய்யும் போதும் , அது செய்து முடிக்கும்போது கிடைக்கும் திருப்தியே சன்மானமாகவும் சந்தோஷமாகவும் மாறுகிறது. வேறு என்ன வேணும் சொல்லுங்கள்?
புதியதாக தொங்கும் கலைஞர்களுக்கு நீங்கள் தர விரும்பும் அறிவுரை என்ன ?
அம்மா: எல்லா விஷயத்தையும் ஆசையுடன் அனுபவித்து செய்யுங்கள்.
சரி…ஒரே ஒரு கவிதை ப்ளீஸ்
அம்மா: கடவுளின் படைத்தல் கலையை வியந்தேன் என் அம்மாவின் பொறுமை எனும் கலையை கற்றேன் அப்பாவின் செய்யும் செயலின் நேர்மையை அறிந்தேன் ஆசானிடம் எல்லாவற்றிலும் ஆனந்தத்தை அடைவதை கற்றேன் வாழ்க்கை வாழ்வதற்கே வாழ்க்கை அழகான கலை அதை அழகாக அனுபவித்து அனைவருக்கும் இன்பத்தை அளிப்போம்
ஆயர் கலைகள் 63 ம் நாம் வாழும் அழகான வாழ்வில் அனைவரும் அடைய ஆண்டவனை பிரார்த்திக்கிறேன்
ஆஹா அருமை!!
இந்த உரையாடலால் நான் உணர்ந்தது — கலை என்பது பிரபலமான பெயரில் மட்டுமல்ல; பெரிய மேடைகளில் மட்டுமல்ல. அது நம் அன்றாட வாழ்க்கையிலேயே உள்ளது.
கலை வாழ்வில் இருக்கிறது; வாழ்வே கலை.
என் வாழ்க்கையில் நான் சந்தித்த முதல் கலைஞர் — என் அம்மா. அவரின் பொறுமையும், அன்பும், எளிமையும் எனக்குக் கற்றுத்தந்த மிகப்பெரிய கலை.
இந்த தொடரும் அவரோடு துவங்குவது அதற்கேற்ற அர்த்தமுள்ளதாக எனக்குத் தோன்றுகிறது.
வரும் அத்தியாயங்களில் இன்னும் பல கலைஞர்களின் குரல்களை உங்களுடன் பகிர்ந்து கொள்ள ஆவலாக இருக்கிறேன்.
இந்த உரையாடலை நீங்கள் எப்படி உணர்கிறீர்கள்? உங்கள் எண்ணங்களை கீழே கருத்துக்களில் பகிர்ந்து கொள்ளுங்கள்.
Do you know what’s tougher than writing a poem? Editing it! Yes, I said it. And it’s not just you—it’s every poet.
Poetry breathes through brevity. That’s why, as a poet, it’s so hard for you to cut down words or replace lines when you’re the one who poured them out in the first place. It feels like the poem belongs entirely to you—but here’s the truth: it doesn’t.
Editing poetry is not just about words. It’s about punctuation, line breaks, and the silence between lines. It’s almost like trying to control your breath while still singing if that makes sense.
So, without further ado, let me walk you through a step-by-step guide to editing a poem using a real example.
First, a disclaimer:
Your first drafts are raw. They are like newborn babies—messy, unfiltered, and vulnerable. Do. Not. Judge. It takes courage to put a first draft out in the open, so always read with an open mind, not with judgment.
The Poem:
This first draft is by Gaurav, one of my swimming coaches (yes, poets can come from anywhere!). Here’s his piece:
I want to follow, yet I lead, ur heart beats fast because of me... A gentle soul, a reckless fire, ur beauty draws my dark desire... I love u not for looks alone, but for the spark we've always known... I crave ur touch, I see your fear, Yet still, I long to hold u near... I'll make u hunger, then provide, A love that burns, yet stays alive...
Love That Lifts. I don’t want to be your whole world, Just someone who walks beside you. Your dreams, your goals—they come first, And I’ll cheer for all you do.
I’ll push you forward, not hold you back, Help you grow, not make you small. Love isn’t losing who you are, It’s finding more—together, through it all.
Step 1: Read your poem multiple times—just read!
No judgment, no editing yet. Let the poem sit with you. Absorb its emotion, rhythm, and intent.
Step 2: Identify the theme.
After a few reads, ask yourself: what is the overall theme and emotion here?
In this poem, you can sense deep desire and devotion. It begins with attraction, touches on longing and vulnerability, and ends with assurance—the promise of a love that empowers rather than confines.
Step 3: Spot lines that lack clarity.
Even when the emotion is clear, some lines may feel vague or open to multiple interpretations. For example, the opening:
I want to follow, yet I lead, ur heart beats fast because of me…
When I first read it, I had two possible interpretations:
You want to surrender to love and be guided, but somehow you end up leading—maybe because of personality or the nature of love itself.
Or, you might be in a higher position in some hierarchy (like a coach-student or senior-junior dynamic), meaning, “In love, I want to follow you, but my position makes me lead.”
To clarify, I asked the poet—and he meant the second one.
Editing tip:
When you edit, don’t assume the poet’s intention, even if you know them personally. Distance the poet from the poem. Poetry is emotional ground; it can be fictional, too. As an editor, it’s important to understand the exact idea. But as a reader, it’s okay to have multiple interpretations—that’s the magic of poetry.
Step 4: Line Editing — Deep Work on the Language Level
Now that you know what your poem wants to say, it’s time to zoom in on the language itself. This is where you make every single word work as hard as it can.
Principles:
Every word must earn its place.
Be ruthless with clichés, vague adjectives, and fillers.
Read aloud for rhythm and mouthfeel.
Maintain the music of the line without diluting meaning.
Example from Gaurav’s Poem:
Original: I want to follow, yet I lead, ur heart beats fast because of me…
Edited: I want to follow, yet I lead, your heartbeat races because of me.
Here, “heartbeat races” has more urgency than “heart beats fast,” and expanding “ur” to “your” gives emotional weight.
Original: A gentle soul, a reckless fire, ur beauty draws my dark desire…
Edited: A calming tide, a reckless fire, your beauty stirs my fiercest desire.
Replacing “gentle soul” with “calming tide” avoids cliché and adds fresh imagery. “Stirs my fiercest desire” feels more alive than “draws my dark desire.”
Original: I crave ur touch, I see your fear, Yet still, I long to hold u near…
Edited: I crave your touch, I sense your fear, yet I long to hold you near.
“Sense” adds emotional depth over “see,” and removing “still” keeps the line light and musical.
Step 5: Developmental Editing—Structuring the Soul
Now, zoom out and ask the big questions:
Principles:
What is this poem really about?
Is there a clear movement from beginning to emotional payoff?
Does the poem end in the right place?
Are there tonal shifts that need bridging?
In this poem, the movement is clear: passionate desire, vulnerability, and then gentle, supportive love. But the transition between the fiery first half and the soft second half could use a smoother bridge.
A possible bridging line could be:
In wanting you, I learn to free you, in loving you, I learn to lead beside you.
It blends passion and partnership, tying the emotional arc together.
Step 6: Structuring & Punctuation—Shaping the Breath of the Poem
Poetry isn’t just about the words you choose; it’s also about how the reader breathes through them. Line breaks, white space, punctuation, and even formatting like italics shape the rhythm and emotional weight of the poem.
Principles:
Let each line break serve a purpose: pause, emphasis, or tonal shift.
Use punctuation sparingly; often, the line break itself is enough to create a natural stop or flow.
White space creates silence, and silence can be as powerful as the words themselves.
Read aloud. A poem should sound right in the body, not just look neat on the page.
Formatting choices like italics can signal a shift in voice, tone, or emotional depth.
For this poem, the first ten lines were restructured into couplets with a blank line between each, allowing each thought to stand on its own and giving the reader time to breathe. The bridging lines were placed in italics to mark the emotional hinge where the poem moves from fiery desire to gentle, supportive love. A deliberate blank space before Love That Lifts creates a visual and emotional pause, letting the second half begin softly and with intention.
Step 7: Commas, Line Breaks, or No Punctuation?
When you edit, decide how much punctuation your poem really needs versus what the line breaks can carry on their own.
Tips:
Commas and periods give clear, grammatical pauses, while line breaks can create softer, more emotional ones.
A line break without punctuation lets the thought linger and creates openness; a period gives it closure and finality.
In couplets, spacing itself acts as a pause—so you can often pare punctuation back and let the white space do the work.
Reading aloud will tell you instantly if a line needs a comma, a period, or nothing at all.
In this version, most of the pauses come from the line breaks and the gaps between couplets, letting the poem breathe naturally without overloading it with commas or ellipses. The result feels intimate and intentional, like someone speaking directly to the reader.
Step 8: Choosing the Right Title
A title is the first door to your poem. It sets tone, theme, and curiosity before the reader even steps in.
Guidelines:
Reflect the core emotion.
Avoid clichés unless you twist them uniquely.
Keep it short and impactful.
Make it earn its place.
“Love That Lifts” works here because it mirrors the second half’s theme of supportive love. Other possibilities: “A Fire Beside You” or “The Hand Beside You.”
Step 9: Give It Back to the Poet
This is the important one. Once you’ve gone through all the edits, give the poem back to the poet.
The poem ultimately belongs to them—it’s their voice, their story. As an editor, your job is to shape and polish, not to own the narrative. Be ready to listen if they want to change something back or keep a raw line you might have cut.
Editing poetry is a collaboration. The goal isn’t to make the poem sound like you—it’s to make their voice shine clearly and powerfully.
The Final Poem:
I want to follow, yet I lead, your heartbeat races because of me.
A calming tide, a reckless fire, your beauty stirs my fiercest desire.
I love you not for looks alone, but for the spark we’ve always known.
I crave your touch, I sense your fear, yet I long to hold you near.
I’ll make you hunger, then provide a fire that burns, yet keeps us alive.
In wanting you, I learn to free you; in loving you, I learn to lead beside you.
Love That Lifts.
I don’t want to be your whole world, only the hand that walks beside you.
Your dreams, your goals—they come first, and I’ll cheer for all you do.
I’ll push you forward, not hold you back, help you grow, not make you small.
Love isn’t losing who you are; it’s finding more—together, through it all.
Editing a poem isn’t just about cutting words or fixing grammar—it’s about breathing life into raw drafts, honouring the poet’s intent, and making every word and pause matter.
If you have a poem that needs fresh eyes, whether it’s a messy first draft or something you want to polish before sharing, I’d love to help.
I offer poetry beta reading and editing services to help your words find their best form.
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