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And still I rise? Resurrection in Mrs Lazarus by Carol Ann Duffy

Mrs Lazarus
 
  I had grieved. I had wept for a night and a day
over my loss, ripped the cloth I was married in
from my breasts, howled, shrieked, clawed
at the burial stones until my hands bled, retched
his name over and over again, dead, dead.

Gone home. Gutted the place. Slept in a single cot,
widow, one empty glove, white femur
in the dust, half. Stuffed dark suits
into black bags, shuffled in a dead man’s shoes,
noosed the double knot of a tie around my bare neck,

gaunt nun in the mirror, touching herself. I learnt
the Stations of Bereavement, the icon of my face
in each bleak frame; but all those months
he was going away from me, dwindling
to the shrunk size of a snapshot, going,

going. Till his name was no longer a certain spell
for his face. The last hair on his head
floated out from a book. His scent went from the house.
The will was read. See, he was vanishing
to the small zero held by the gold of my ring.

Then he was gone. Then he was legend, language;
my arm on the arm of the schoolteacher-the shock
of a man’s strength under the sleeve of his coat-
along the hedgerows. But I was faithful
for as long as it took. Until he was memory.

So I could stand that evening in the field
in a shawl of fine air, healed, able
to watch the edge of the moon occur to the sky
and a hare thump from a hedge; then notice
the village men running towards me, shouting,

behind them the women and children, barking dogs,
and I knew. I knew by the sly light
on the blacksmith’s face, the shrill eyes
of the barmaid, the sudden hands bearing me
into the hot tang of the crowd parting before me.

He lived. I saw the horror on his face.
I heard his mother’s crazy song. I breathed
his stench; my bridegroom in his rotting shroud,
moist and dishevelled from the grave’s slack chew,
croaking his cuckold name, disinherited, out of his time.

First Stanza:

 

Carol Ann Duffy’s narrator Mrs Lazarus seems as dead as her famous husband at the begining of the dramatic monologue. Unsurprsingly and indeed compassionately, Duffy seems very much concerned with the possibility of ‘resurrection’ in this poem although ironically it is Mrs Lazarus’s resurrection she is concerned with centrally rather than Lazarus himself. The theme of resurrection haunts Duffy’s ‘The World’s Wife’ and indeed her poetry in general. Duffy’s characters reanimate themselves in challenging and individual ways and it is this courage which renders so many of her speakers compelling.

Mrs Laraus is bereft, abject with the inconvertibility of death. Duffy’s deployment of a vocabulary that is final and ‘past’ communicates the bleak ‘foreign’ landscape of loss that removes the mourner from any sense of belonging or community. To borrow one of Julia Kristeva’s memorable insights, Mrs Lazarus is ‘foreign’ to herself. She is estranged from ‘herself’ even to the point of being animal-like in her abject despair. How effective the repetition of the past tenses all ending in ‘ed’ are in solidifying the harsh certainty of death. The mention of time seems both specific and elastic. ‘Night’ and its separation from ‘day’ seem arbitrary. Slippery even. Despair makes such distinctions unnecessary. Death marks us and the bleeding hands( terrible stigmata?)  and uncontrollable vomiting make loss physical to the point of self-‘disgust and even self-annihilation.

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