Dancing Dust
	Poems by Mollie Caird (1922-2000)
	Martha
Home Alphabetic index of poems Thematic index of poems Biography Gallery Contact and links	Now I am old I sit under the vine And stare at my bent hands, knotted and veined, Their speckled grave-marks splashed like dregs of wine, Hard-calloused from the pestle, scored, and stained By juice of grape and fig. I am constrained To think of Mary’s hands, white, gentle, fair, Cool as well-water, yet no use, being trained Only to turn the scroll or flutter where Caress meets with caress, or comb that lustrous hair. I loved my sister. Only yesterday We little girls, our bare legs glossy and brown Beneath our kilted skirts, scampered to play At make-believe with shroud or wedding-gown, Aping we scarce knew what; but Mother’s frown And sharp command recalled us, since we must Grind meal, tend over, gather herbs. Then down Slunk Mary to the cross-legged school and thrust Among the boys to scratch wise letters in the dust. Mother would scold and sigh, but Father said Book-learning did no harm to man or beast Or woman, even; enough time when she wed For Mary to turn housewife. So she ceased To sweep and spin and dress lambs for the feast. I brought the pitcher from the well, I set Deep in the measured meal the busy yeast, Born to be dutiful, paying a daughter’s debt – But Mary was her father’s, brother’s rabbi’s pet. How short that childhood! Lazarus alone Remained to us so soon. Not strange that we, Undowered and parentless, in him should own A very god, a secret Baal, whose free Service was all his sisters' joy, for he Kindled heart’s incense in us both. I gave The bones and body of his comfort, she Clothed it with such soft silks as all men crave. Alas! I could not give the sweets I did not have. And so we lived until the Master brought His golden alchemy. Under this very shade, Hemmed in with listeners (mouths to feed) he taught With Mary at his feet. I, flustered, made The cakes and sauces, raked the charcoal, laid Table and turned the spitted fowls about. Then with what love he “Martha, Martha” said, Knowing the deep springs of my angry shout, Seeing the Mary in me crying to get out. That was our christened year. The Master’s word Rang in our heads and hearts all summer long. I shelled rich walnuts, cut the glowing gourd, Shook down ripe olives. Mary, gay and strong, Sang David’s psalms and taught me Solomon’s song. We laughed, red-fingered under the mulberry tree. Reverse and obverse of God’s coin, no wrong Or rivalry between us now, since we Were minted, Christ-stamped, in his kingdom of the free. We thought, poor fools, our bliss would last forever, Our lives one shining harvest-holiday, Till Lazarus fell ill; aflame with fever, Delirious, pain-racked, wasted, dying lay. Our Master’s healing hands were far away From Bethany. We had no hope. Not all My toil or Mary’s tenderness could say The occult charm of health. Death dropped his pall, Lazarus lay cold, our brother gone beyond recall. Mary sat still with folded hands and wept. I washed his body, smoothed the linen bands, Unlocked the closet where the spice was kept, But Mary sat and wept with folded hands. What woman in the world but understands My desperate misery, who needs must keep Busy with agonizing tasks. The sands Slipped through the glass, but Mary did not sleep, Mary, with folded hands, would only weep and weep. When Lazarus was four days in the tomb We heard news of the Master. Though it was hot, High noon, sun blazing, I stumbled from the room, Snatched up my skirts and ran and ran, though what Wild expectations drove me I knew not. Sandals grit-clogged, a stitch piercing my side, My sobbing hard-drawn breaths caught like a knot In my parched throat, I flung at him and cried: “Master, had you been here my brother had not died.” I never thought to see the Master weep, But his tears came when he saw Mary’s eyes Swollen with grief and fierce despair too deep For easy remedy. His shuddering sighs Matched oddly with his firm command: “Arise, Your brother will arise; roll back the stone.” No dreaded stench, only the piquant spice, Sharp scent of myrrh, and, intimate, unknown, A cold, faint, fragrant air from some far country blown. The crowd was silent, motionless, the whir Of myriad cicadas all the sound We heard for minutes, aeons. Then a stir, A scratch, a rustle from the shadowed ground Deep in the cave. These same hands round and round Tightened the bands against which now our dead Flexed his hard muscles. These, Martha’s hands, firm bound The sagging jaw. Lazarus came forth, his head Back-yearning to the place he had but newly fled. I can no more. Thereafter too much grief Mingled with joy past bearing. Sometimes despair Engulfs my solitude. Sometimes belief Springs with the miracle wheat, and blossoms where I hoe my garden herbs or quietly share Bewildered thoughts along the stony track With my poor ass who clatters homeward there. As he plods patient, head down, bridle slack, My work-worn fingers trace the black cross on his back. Then I remember that small ass who trod Palm branches under hoof along a road Of tragedy and triumph, carrying God. Remember, too, an ass whose wretched load Was a belaboured half-dead man who strode Towards Jericho, and met with robber-bands. That was my Master’s parable, which rode High in my heart and still exultant stands – I think the good Samaritan had Martha’s hands. Now to my flowering vine the butterfly, Magical spirit, messenger of bliss, Comes earth-released, compacted all of sky And sunshine. Still I hold my faith in this, Who from the grave-clothes of his chrysalis Bursts, a new creature, free to flit and glance Among the anemones. Great hope is his, Embodiment of truth, no slave of chance, My bright-winged little Lazarus, leading the Dance. Undated but composed 1971