To My Soul Poem by Ananta Madhavan

Soul, subtle Soul,
subtler than finest muslin
That Bengal ever wove
Two thousand years ago,
Subtler than gossamer
Filaments at dew-dawn,
Subtler than air,
Subtler than thought.


Soul, how can you preserve
Your integrity
In this crass world
Of brambles and barbed wire,
Of claws with a curve
Of hideous menace,
And spiked instruments
To comb the skin to shreds?


Soul, do you know yourself
Apart from the adhesive flesh
Which grows to ruddy vigour
And putrefies alive,
Until the breath no longer
Informs it in the rhythms
Of a four-stroke pump
And a two-stroke bellows?


Soul, if schizophrenic, I
Dwell in you a while,
It's not from self-hatred
Or bodily disgust;
Only because the thought
Of you, so unalloyed
By the rust of living
Appeals to me.


Soul, be not distant
In that parting hour;
I shall release you from our pact
Absolutely. Go to that place
Whence you came to me
Without a tear, a pure form,
Like an electronic pulse
With a quick green message,
Gone before it is read.