Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Alan Shapiro’s "Soul" is a meditation on the nature of near-death experiences, the boundary between body and soul, and the paradox of departure and return. The poem questions the common narrative of those who claim to have glimpsed the afterlife—a realm of "only radiance", where the spirits of the deceased await the dying with luminous presence. Shapiro does not dismiss this vision outright, but he interrogates its implications, leading to a radical reversal in which the body, rather than the soul, becomes the site of ultimate radiance.

The opening lines establish the conventional description of near-death experiences: "If, as they always claim upon returning, there?s only radiance there, near death, and in that radiance the brighter densities of all their own beloved dead come out to greet them." The phrase "as they always claim" suggests skepticism, not outright disbelief, but a tone that asks us to consider whether these visions are truly what they seem. The "brighter densities" of the deceased suggest that even in this supposed state of transcendence, there remains a sense of individual identity—an echo of the physical form, now reduced to light and presence.

The next lines deepen the paradox of perception after death: "and they themselves now bodiless, rinsed clean of eye or ear, can still somehow perceive them." The contradiction here is subtle but striking—if the dead are without bodies, without sensory organs, how can they still recognize and experience one another? The phrase "rinsed clean of eye or ear" suggests purification, but it also raises the question of whether perception without the body is even possible. This moment introduces the poem’s central tension: if the soul exists without the body, what does it experience, and how does it know itself?

Shapiro then offers a compelling image of the soul’s liminality: "if it?s the afterimage of the body only, the thinning yet still sentient mist of who they were, that keeps them only far enough away from what they brighten towards to know themselves as its auroral edge." The idea that the soul is an "afterimage of the body"—a lingering impression rather than a separate entity—complicates traditional notions of the soul’s independence. The phrase "auroral edge" likens the soul to the fleeting brilliance of a sunrise or the Northern Lights, something luminous but evanescent, always on the verge of dissolving into something larger. Yet, rather than merging completely, the soul remains "only far enough away" to still be aware of itself as separate. This suggests that the self persists in a state of nearness to transcendence, but never quite reaches it.

Then comes the poem’s fundamental question: "why then do they return?" If the afterlife is truly radiant, if the soul has already begun its transition into light, why do near-death experiences so often involve a return to the body? The abruptness of the question interrupts the poetic flow, marking a shift in perspective. Instead of accepting the usual narrative of near-death encounters as peaceful transitions into eternity, Shapiro asks whether something more complex is occurring.

The poem’s second half offers a startling reversal: "Couldn?t it instead / be the body that rejoices there?" This is a radical proposition. Rather than seeing the body as something to be shed, something left behind as the soul ascends, Shapiro suggests that the body itself is the source of the radiance. The phrase "that radiance the body?s radiance of being only just aware enough as body to know it is itself the star-flung anonymity it?s on the verge of." Here, the body is not a prison from which the soul escapes, but the very means through which transcendence is experienced. The body, in its final moments, reaches a state of luminous awareness, recognizing itself as part of the cosmos—"the star-flung anonymity"—just before it dissolves.

The final lines of the poem bring the tension between body and soul to a dramatic climax: "when the suddenly too quiet quiet startles the soul awake, and soul comes rushing, calling and rushing like a fearful and ferocious mother to her only child?" The phrase "suddenly too quiet quiet" suggests that death is not a gentle slipping away, but a jarring absence, a silence that shocks the soul into awareness. The soul, rather than being serenely liberated, reacts with urgency and terror—"like a fearful and ferocious mother to her only child." This simile reverses traditional roles: instead of the body being the dependent, impermanent vessel that the soul must abandon, the soul is the one rushing back in desperation, as if it cannot bear to be separated from the body.

This closing image is deeply unsettling. It suggests that the soul, rather than yearning for release, clings fiercely to the body at the moment of death, as if it is the body that grants it meaning, identity, and existence. The mother-child comparison introduces an emotional intensity—there is love, attachment, and fear in this return. The soul does not ascend peacefully but rushes back, unwilling to let go.

"Soul" challenges the conventional understanding of death, questioning whether transcendence lies in the soul’s departure or in the body’s final, radiant awareness. By reversing the expected roles—by making the soul the dependent and the body the source of light—Shapiro forces the reader to reconsider what it means to die, and what it means to return. The poem leaves us with an image of desperate attachment rather than peaceful release, suggesting that what we call the soul may not be something separate at all, but simply the body’s last, luminous recognition of itself.

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