I write the occasional poem. I think my dabbling in poetry makes

Hear the words of Kamal Haasan, artist and visionary, who declared: “I write the occasional poem. I think my dabbling in poetry makes me better at screenplays. Poetry teaches the value of condensing, the importance of talking in a few words.” In these lines lies the recognition of the ancient bond between forms of art—that the discipline of one strengthens the mastery of another. For poetry, with its brevity and fire, shapes the soul to speak with precision, while screenplays, vast in scope, demand that same power to convey entire worlds with but a few lines. To learn the art of few words is to wield the power of many.

The ancients knew the sacred art of condensation. The oracle at Delphi spoke not in essays, but in fragments—short utterances that carried the weight of eternity. The Psalms of David, often but a few lines, spoke more profoundly than long speeches. The haiku of Japan, small as a breath, revealed entire universes of image and meaning. In every culture, the shortest forms were the sharpest, for they stripped away excess until only truth remained. Haasan recognizes this: that the poet, trained in cutting words to their essence, becomes a master of all other forms of storytelling.

Consider the words of Shakespeare, who was both poet and playwright. His sonnets honed his ability to compress passion and philosophy into fourteen lines, and this sharpened his dramas, where every line carried weight. When Hamlet asks, “To be or not to be,” it is poetry—condensed thought, vast in meaning. Without poetry’s discipline, the plays would swell with excess. With it, they cut into the soul. So too does Haasan remind us that the artist who learns brevity learns greatness.

The origin of his saying lies in the practical demands of art itself. A screenplay is not the space for endless words—it is a vessel where image, dialogue, and silence must balance. To say too much is to weaken the story; to say just enough is to make it powerful. Poetry, then, is the crucible where the artist learns this restraint. The poet cannot wander; the poet must condense. In this way, dabbling in poetry teaches any creator the discipline of clarity.

This teaching carries a lesson for all who create, not only for writers. In life itself, as in art, too many words cloud meaning. A speech may dazzle, but a single sincere sentence may heal. A flood of explanations may confuse, but one quiet phrase may guide. The one who learns to condense, to speak with the power of fewer words, will reach hearts more deeply than the one who spills endlessly. Poetry is not only an art—it is a teacher of discipline, clarity, and focus.

The lesson is clear: if you would master communication, learn poetry. Not necessarily to publish or to perform, but to train the mind to cut away the excess and the heart to speak with sincerity. For in poetry we learn to weigh every word, to let silence carry weight, to honor the power of the unsaid. And these lessons apply not only to writing, but to speaking, to living, to loving. To condense is to honor the listener, to trust the power of simplicity.

Practical steps follow. Try writing a poem each day, even if brief, to discipline your tongue and sharpen your thoughts. In conversation, practice saying what is essential, not what is endless. In storytelling, let images speak as much as words. In your life, honor the value of silence as much as speech. For the one who learns to condense not only speaks more powerfully, but also lives more wisely.

Thus Kamal Haasan’s words endure: poetry teaches the value of condensing, the importance of talking in a few words. To learn poetry is to learn power. To master brevity is to master depth. Let us then practice this discipline, so that our words, like the words of poets and prophets before us, may not scatter like dust, but strike like arrows into the hearts of those who hear them.