On Reading Wallace Stevens

    Sometimes I find poetry by Wallace Stevens very challenging.  To understand his work, I write it out in prose.  This provides a perspective to understand his intention.
Recently I wrote out in prose the Stevens poem titled "The Men That Are  Falling."  When done, I was struck by how effective the writing seemed.   My understanding of the poem in this form  surpassed any pleasure I had found in its original structure.  I was reminded of the stories of Joseph Conrad.  The words seemed to have more heat.

Then I got the idea of posting the prose form to see if anyone could mis-identify the original writer.  Of course, it got ID'd rather quickly by Frank Wilson of Books, Inq.  (See comments below.)

Here is the poem in prose, followed by the poem in its original poetic form.  Please read both and see what you think.

"Gods and all  angels sing the world to sleep, now that the moon is rising in the heat and crickets are loud again in the grass.  The moon burns in the mind on last remembrances.
     He lies down and the night wind blows upon him here.  The bells grow longer.  This is not sleep.  This is desire.  Ah!  Yes, desire...this leaning on his bed, this leaning on his elbows on his bed, staring, at midnight, at the pillow that is black in the catastrophic room...beyond despair, life an intenser instinct.  What is it he desires?  But this he cannot know, the man that thinks, yet life itself, the fulfillment of desire to the grinding ric-rac, staring steadily at a head upon the pillow in the dark, more than sudarium, speaking the speech of desolates, bodiless, a head thick-lipped from riot and rebellious cries, the head of one of the men that are falling, placed upon the pillow to repose and speak, speak and say the immaculate syllables that he spoke only by doing what he did.
     God and all angels, this was his desire, whose head lies blurring here, for this he died.  Taste of the blood upon his martyred lips, O pensioners, O demagogues and pay-men!  This death was his belief though death is a stone.  This man loved earth, not heaven, enough to die.  The night wind blows upon the dreamer, bent over words that are life's voluble utterance."


The Men that Are Falling

Gods and all angels sing the world to sleep,
Now that the moon is rising in the heat

And crickets are loud again in the grass.  The moon
Burns in the mind on lost remembrances.

He lies down and the night wind blows upon him here,
The bells grow longer.  This is not sleep.  This is desire.

Ah!  Yes, desire...this leaning on his bed,
This leaning on his elbows on his bed,

Staring, at midnight, at the pillow that is black
In the catastrophic room...beyond despair,

Like an intenser instinct.  What is it he desires?
But this he cannot know, the man that thinks,

Yet life itslf,  the fulfillment of desire
In the grinding ric-rac, staring steadily

At a head upon the pillow in the dark,
More than sudarium, speaking the speech

Of absolutes,  bodiless, a head
Thick-lipped from riot and rebellious cries,

The head of one of the men that are falling,  placed
Upon the pillow to repose and speak,

Speak and say the immaculate syllables
That he spoke only by doing what he did.

God and all angels, this was his desire,
Whose head lies blurring here, for this he died.

Taste of the blood upon his martyred lips,
O pensioners, O demagogues and pay-men!

This death was his belief though death is a stone.
This man loved earth, no heaven, enough to die.

The night wind blows upon the dreamer, bent
Over words that are life's valuable utterance.


(Which form is more effective for you?)
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