However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there

In the words of James Schuyler, “However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can’t be much to it.” This is no casual remark, but a statement that strikes at the heart of what makes poetry different from other forms of speech. Schuyler tells us that a poem is not simply information dressed up in verse—it is an experience, a form of truth that cannot be stripped down into plain prose without losing its soul. If you can summarize a poem fully in a sentence, then perhaps it was never truly a poem at all, but only a thought pretending to be one.

For poetry is not about content alone; it is about rhythm, resonance, the shimmer of words chosen and arranged with care. Prose may tell you what happened; poetry makes you feel it, see it, breathe it. A prose sentence might explain the fact of a storm, but a poem can make you hear the thunder, feel the lightning, and sense the terror and beauty of the skies. Schuyler insists that this ineffable quality—the mystery beyond summary—is the very essence of poetry.

We see this truth in history. Think of Emily Dickinson, whose compact verses could never be flattened into explanation without losing their power. When she wrote, “Because I could not stop for Death— / He kindly stopped for me—,” one might reduce it to: “The poet imagines death as a gentleman caller.” But in doing so, the trembling strangeness, the eerie civility, the immortal awe vanish. The poetry is not in the idea alone, but in the language that carries it. Schuyler reminds us: to reduce poetry to prose is to destroy the thing itself.

This principle also appears in the works of William Blake, whose poems burn with visions of innocence and experience. To say, “Blake describes a lamb as a symbol of innocence,” is true but shallow. The repetition, the childlike questioning, the rhythm of the words—these are the breath of the poem. To reduce it to prose is like describing music without sound. Schuyler’s teaching warns us against confusing summary with essence.

The deeper meaning of this quote lies in the recognition that some truths cannot be captured directly. Poetry often speaks where literal speech fails. It is the medium of mystery, paradox, and feeling. A poem that can be paraphrased completely was never more than an idea; a true poem is larger than its explanation. It resists containment, for it is meant to evoke, not just to tell.

The lesson for us, then, is to approach poetry with humility. Do not seek only to “explain” it, for in doing so, you may strip away the very thing that makes it alive. Instead, dwell with the words, let them echo, let them move you. Trust that what you cannot fully summarize may be the most important part. To live with poetry is to live with mystery, to value what cannot be reduced.

In practice, this means reading poetry not as a puzzle to be solved, but as a presence to be experienced. Let its images work upon your imagination, its rhythms upon your breath, its silences upon your soul. And in your own speech, remember this wisdom: not every truth must be flattened into prose. Some truths are meant to sing, to dance, to linger beyond words.

Thus, Schuyler’s words endure as a charge to us all: a poem is not meant to be reduced, but to be lived. Cherish it for what it gives that prose cannot: a glimpse of the eternal, carried on the fragile wings of language.