Twelfth Night - 1/06/2010: Notes on "Sacrament"

Today, January 6th is my/our birthday.

And, in looking over these journal entries, I find that I left something out of my introductory material to "Sacrament," posted while groggy, as it was near midnight of Christmas day.

So I've added it here. The entire piece was first posted in Yahoo's "Twinloss" group.

Marcus has been gone for twelve years, now, and six years ago, I wrote a poem at Christmas in memory of him. I write similar pieces on our birthdays, some holidays like Ancestor Night, and the anniversary of his death.

Tomorrow is Boxing Day, which we celebrate because my parents are Brits.

We also celebrate because we've always celebrated pretty much everything. Day of the Dead, Hallowe'en, Reformation, All Souls, All Saints, Solstice, Christmas, Boxing Day, Kwanzaa, the Saturnalia . . . and that's just the last three months of the year.

So, although I'm Wiccan, I went back to our old church last night for the late Christmas Eve candlelight service of hymns and lessons at the church Marcus and I attended as children. At my request, Brian didn't come with me. I didn't know if I was going to be able to keep my friendly mask up, or whether my facade would shatter and I'd start to weep uncontrollably.

We were mirrors of each other, not only physically, but somewhat in our views: at 13, we diverged for the first time in our lives. Marcus and I had been acolytes and altar boys, and it all felt wrong to me. More than ever, I felt that we were "those two cute twin boys at the service." And the Anglican/Church of England view of the world seemed, to me, limited, as I began to be truly aware of my sexual identity. And I began exploring other paths.

Marcus continued, steadfast, progressing over the next few years to crucifer and scripture-bearer, assisting at communion, and at 18 he was told that he would soon be asked to fill a position in the vestry that had recently been vacated - temporarily.

I was there as he assisted in giving communion for the first time. His face was beatific. I've never seen him look more beautiful.

And out of respect and love for him, I took communion. I intended to continue taking it at Christmas and Easter, for the sake of Marcus and the Parentos. But just before Advent, at the tail end of the long, green season of Pentecost, Marcus died.

I'd been in a coma, coming out of it to see Mum. And with one look at her face, I began screaming, because I knew Marcus was gone, and we'd never meet in this life again.

After that, I was well-nigh catatonic for months. I was aphasic - couldn't/wouldn't speak. And I was blessedly amnesiac about the whole episode of the car crash. I found out later that Marcus had died in my lap, killed almost instantly. I still have no memory of it.

Time passed, bones healed, and the aphasia resolved into a recurrence of childhood stuttering and stammering that had made me fodder for bullies. But this time, there was no Marcus to be my champion.

And so I began pretending that I was him, doing what he would do, speaking boldly and acting quickly and decisively. I was acting "as if" I were him. It was a game we'd been able to pull off a few times in grades four through our sophomore years. And Marcus, I discovered, was still with me . . . every memory, every moment of him.

My dreaming was blessed with his visits. We'd run and wrestle and dash into the surf on the beach, as we always had, and we'd talk of many things. Not cabbages nor kings, nor sex (Marcus had told me he was bisexual when I told him I was gay). Unlike our actual real-life conversations, these were about life and after-life and Heaven and the Summerland. I think of these meetings with him as comforting manifestations of the Australian Aboriginal dream-time.

As my stammering smoothed out, I relied less and less on playing the role of doing things as Marcus might have.

Years later, around Ancestor Night and our birthday, I still dream of him. He is still my champion, and the dreams are so vivid that I consider them true. "Dreaming true" is a way of divining, of tapping into the universal knowledge of good, evil, truth, and masks.

Six years ago, very early Christmas morning, remembering my bro, and grateful for the time we did have, I wrote a poem called "Sacrament." . . .

This year, I went back to our old church [ where Marcus and I had served as altar boys] for the late Christmas Eve service of lessons, carols, and candle-light.

I made it through the service very well, although at "on Earth as it is in Heaven" I choked up for a bit. I was wiping my eyes, and a lady in the pew across from me saw me and smiled, and nodded . . . and then she passed me a tissue, which really set me off.

"You're Marcus's brother, aren't you?" she asked quietly. I nodded, and she continued, "We miss him. I'm so sorry."

And I thanked her.

I am proud to be thought of as "Marcus's brother."

Queer Poetry

My friend Reed and I, after meeting in person for only the fifth time (as he reminded me), were discussing the old Yahoo GayPoetry group.

It seemed that it had been dormant for months.

And then I found Gerald Miller's obit via searching the Web - or thought I did.  I'm still not sure.  The matter seems to be in limbo at the moment..

Gerald was one of my oldest and dearest "on-line" friends. I cried when I realized that I wasn't going to get to correspond with him and/or chat via Yahoo Messenger again.

R suggested that we revive the group, creating "GayPoetsGroup2." And nearly a month later, I re-connected with an old PlanetOut chat friend and met another kindred spirit on Paltalk.

So we grew to ten people.  And then I discovered that someone had erred - we had been classified by Yahoo! Groups as "Adult," and were therefore banned/omitted from the directory.  Those looking for the group couldn't find us.

* sigh *

I was all for writing it off, giving up, and accepting the inevitable:  people just don't care about poetry, about LGBT poetry or poets, or anything of that queer kind. 

Reed, however, demurred.  He encouraged me to take a deep breath and consider re-grouping.  He even offered to carefully research things so that the group would be properly classified and available to anyone looking for it. 

He also reminded me of Gerald Miller's original group home page statement:

Gerald founded Gay Poetry to be (in his own words, "a place where Gays can develop their Poetic Voice to speak about their lives. The idea is to have a nurturing focal point for Gay-oriented poetry, for its discussion and dissemination. I think this way we can be of assistance to each other in speaking to the wider world about our place in it."


And thus was born "Queer Poetry."  I kind of like the in-your-face notion of "queer" being a reflection of an odd, different, frequently outcast kind of person.

It certainly suits me.

We've kept Gerald's original home page statement, and Queer Poetry's new home page expands it with this:

I hope you'll find Queer Poetry to be a place to share your work, comment constructively and supportively, and explore your creativity.

All GLBTIQ poets, appreciators of poetry, or friends are welcome - regardless of sexual orientation. We ask that you be at least 16 to post messages, as that's the age of majority in most European nations (and we welcome queer poets from all over the globe).


The only restrictions are purely subjective: no ad homenim attacks, no flaming, no spamming.
The group is open to anyone who enjoys poetry or discussions of it, or writing it. By anyone, we mean regardless of sexual orientation. All are welcome.

Here's the URL: http:///groups.yahoo.com/group/QueerPoetry/

And now, we have eleven members.

And so it goes on growing.