Raising Lazarus

Adapted from the original notebook fragment written by Rainer Maria Rilke in Spain in 1913.

Evidently, this was needed. Because people need 
to be screamed at with proof. 
But he knew his friends. Before they were 
he knew them. And they knew
that he would never leave them 
there, desolate. So he let his exhausted eyes close 
at first glimpse of the village fringed with tall fig 
trees —  
immediately he found himself in their midst: 
here was Martha, sister of the dead 
boy. He knew 
she would not stray, 
as he knew which would; 
he knew that he would always find her 
at his right hand, 
and beside her 
her sister Mary, the one 
a whole world of whores 
still stood in a vast circle pointing at. Yes, 
all were gathered around him. And once again 
he began to explain 
to bewildered upturned faces 
where it was he had to go, and why. 
He called them “my friends.” The Logos, God’s 
creating word, — the same voice that said 
Let there be light. 
Yet 
when he opened his eyes, 
he found himself standing apart. 
Even the two 
slowly backing away, as though 
from concern for their good name. 
Then he began to hear voices; 
whispering 
quite distinctly, 
or thinking: 
Lord, 
if you had been here 
our friend might not have died. 
(At that, he slowly reached out 
as though to touch a face, 
and soundlessly started to cry.) 
He asked them the way to the grave.
And he followed behind them, 
preparing 
to do what is not done 
to that green silent place 
where life and death are one. 
By then other Brueghelian grotesques 
had gathered, toothlessly sneering 
across at each other and stalled 
at some porpoise or pig stage 
of ontogenetical horrorshow, keeping 
their own furtive shadowy distances 
and struggling to keep up 
like packs of limping dogs; 
merely to walk down this road 
in broad daylight 
had begun to feel illegal, 
unreal, rehearsal, 
test — but for what! 
And the filth of desecration
sifting down over him, as a feverish outrage 
rose up, contempt 
at the glib ease 
with which words like “living” 
and “being dead” 
rolled off their tongues; 
and loathing flooded his body 
when he hoarsely cried, 
“Move the stone!” 
“By now the body must stink,” 
some helpfully suggested. But it was true 
that the body had lain in its grave four days. 
He heard the voice as if from far away, 
beginning to fill with that gesture 
which rose through him: no hand that heavy
had ever reached this height, shining 
an instant in air. Then 
all at once clenching 
and cramped — the fingers 
shrunk crookedly 
into themselves, 
and irreparably fixed there, 
like a hand with scars of ghastly 
slashing lacerations 
and the usual deep sawing 
across the wrist’s fret, 
through all major nerves, 
the frail hair-like nerves —  
so his hand 
at the thought 
all the dead might return 
from that tomb 
where the enormous cocoon 
of the corpse was beginning to stir. 
Yet nobody stood there —  
only the one young man, 
pale as though bled, 
stooping at the entrance 
and squinting at the light, 
picking at his face, loose 
strips of rotting shroud. 
All that he could think of 
was a dark place to lie down, 
and hide that wasted body. 
And tears rolled up his cheek 
and back into his eyes, 
and then his eyes began 
rolling back into his head ...     
Peter looked across at Jesus 
with an expression that seemed to say 
You did it, or What have you done? 
And everyone saw how their vague and inaccurate 
life made room for his once more.

-- Franz Wright (1953-2015), American poet and translator, son of poet James Wright

Relevant scripture: John 11:1-45