Notes on "Illyria"

I've cribbed much of the following from back-and-forth responses about "Illyria" to the Yahoo "Twinloss" group. The chunks have been re-arranged for the sake of clarity (and to eliminate repetitive free-association strings).
I had written "Illyria" some years before, but hadn 't posted it to this particular group. At the time, most of my poems weren't about anything personal. This one was, but I didn't post it to the one group that would "get it" most deeply.
Maybe it was from fear of opening an emotional can of worms, maybe I was distracted by the upcoming trip that would side-track me into the UK for a few years, or maybe it was "a blonde moment." Hair colour is the easiest excuse.
 
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NOTES: on "Illyria," and sundry other matters
 ===============================
Thank you all for your kind responses.
I don't usually explain anything about my poetry, but with this group, I will because . . . well . . . I'm a sibling short and you all know what that's like.
So consider yourselves adopted. "Illyria" is all about the Shakespeare - the legacy of being raised by two Brit parentos (both with a love of English literature).
"Illyria" was written for my brother on our birthday some years ago - the fifth birthday after he died.
Someone asked me what I meant by calling Marcus and myself "Twelfth Night twins."
A Twelfth Night twin is a twin born January 6 (Twelfth Night). That is my/our birthday.
"Twelfth Night," by Willie the Shakes, is about two twins who each believe the other was drowned in a shipwreck.
Viola describes herself as "all the sons of my father's house, and all the daughters, too."
The song "Come Away, Death," contains the phrase "in sad cypress be laid." It was the popular coffin material.
And the twins are described thus: "An apple cleft in twain is not more twin."
When Sebastian and Viola are re-united, Sebastian declares, "I should let my tears fall upon your cheek /And say, "Thrice welcome."
Oh, and if wishes were fishes, I'd give much for that kind of reunion.
In setting up the Queer Poetry group here [on Yahoo!/YaHell], a newer member from the now-defunct previous group asked me a question that I hadn't thought to mention.
      Q: "What does 'frater geminus superstes' mean?"
      A: It means "the brother twin survives."
There's a poem in the thought of "surviving vs. living." I'm living, and I believe Marcus still does - and not only in my heart.
Half a lifetime ago, when we were sixteen, he was my hero and my champion.
And he still is. Love never dies.
(love ya, bro)
Happy New Year and much love to all here, 

Todd, twin to Marcus

Luna Triformis

☽◯☾  Luna Triformis ☽◯☾

As the Maiden holds the cup,
Containing the life to be,
She smiles at the secrets within her.
The Mother grows round with life;
Her smile beams beams fully
As she gives birth -
Full-flowing the secrets
Bearing sacred wisdom
To a thirsting earth.
The Crone of the little night
Oncoming gathers life again
Ending the cycle of all;
And she too smiles
With wisdom and love
For all the children she has been.
And brought, and shall be
Again.


☽◯☾


===========


Blessed we've met
With Joy in heart,
And triply blessed be
As we depart
From the circle
We form for her above,
Peace to all, and joy - and love.

☽◯☾ 

========

Written for a drum circle - Full Moon, 28th April 2010

Day of Silence

4/16/2010
(For Monica, on the Day of Silence)

Today, the Day of Silence,
Virginia Woolf's only record
Of her voice will speak for me.

I'm observing silence
On Facebook, with others,
Yet one of them in the social net
Shared this item.

Virginia was also silenced,
In her way, by her circumstance
Of time and place and class and sex,
Entangled in a social net
That dragged her down

She took pen in hand,
Perhaps thought of Vita,
Before filling her pockets
With rocks, and strolled forth
From a room of her own
To the river.

Her voice, I knew, spoke on
In print on page, black and white
Photographs and images.

But I did not know
That she would sound
Exactly as I'd imagined:,
Reserve, clarity, precise diction
Weaving elegant phrases,
Stating things
"Past examining."

============================
c.  2010  Todd Eliot


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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8czs8v6PuI&feature=related

NOTE:  This recording had me saying (as I often do) "There's a poem in there somewhere."  There was.  This time, it poured out like water, instead of being carved or cobbled together.

- T -

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.

11/16/97 (Third November Song)

11/16/97 (Third November Song)

At 5:06 p.m., you first drew the first protesting breath,
Outraged by the sharp slap, the bright lights,
And the indignity:
Dangling wet and naked among strangers.

At 5:18 p.m., I followed curiously to investigate,
And left the warmth, the liquid darkness,
Urged on by your cries:
Our pattern for life in the bright new world.

My best memory of us: pounding down the beach,
Two of Neptune’s colts. We would collapse at last,
Your laughter in my ears as we grappled in the sand.
Hearts slowing, breath returning, you would rise, stretch,
And assume the royal voice, suddenly mock-English,
Fluting out the edict: “We insist on being happy . . . . .”
Then the wink and nudge: “It’s work, but it’s soooooooo worth it!”

I didn’t know those words would be emblazoned on my heart,
Still spurring me on from day to day
Without you . . . .

You were joyous above all things, so I honor your memory:
I insist on being happy.
It’s work . . . .

But in those moments after gritted teeth and tears,
When peace descends
“Sooooooo worth it!”

=================================
c. 2000 Todd Eliot

Sacrament

Also posted in "Todd Surfs LB CA"

Sacrament
(for Marcus)

You would rise to take your place in line
Solemn as I never saw you
And seem almost to glide
Past the rank on rank of pews.
As you went up the aisle, your face
Seemed elsewhere, your eyes, downcast
Focused on someplace other:
Past the time and place,
Beyond present or past
Or future to a place where the three
Found themselves as one in union --
In a perfect moment removed from time
Or space or any human thing.
Sharing the communion
And turning after bread and wine
With brimming eyes,
Your voice lifted to sing:
My brother.


=========================
c. 2000 Todd Eliot

Through the Looking Glass

Through the Looking-Glass
(for my brother on Ancestor Night)

Marcus, my twin, in the mirror:
Always shining, older, stronger, fairer, –
Running a little way ahead when we were
Children on the beach;
Under the glass, living on beneath its
Surface – still playing hide and seek.

Every morning sun
Rose after a bitter dawn –
I woke again from dreams of us,
Knowing you were gone.

Time continued in its course:
One second became a minute; hours,
Days, weeks, months … learning to stand,
Dream, wake, cry, and crawl across the sand.

Still, Mum and the Da and I would
Joke: about the newest rebel angel –
One with ruffled wings, crooked smile, and
Never quite on time (with the halo always askew).

Each time I glimpse you in the mirror
(Less often underneath my changing face),
I know we'll sprint along dream-time beaches
Once again, laughing, and your voice singing
That you're with me -- as always -- racing just a step ahead.

=======================
c. 2001 Todd Eliot

Trompe l'Oeil

Trompe l'Oeil
(for my brother on Ancestor Night)

I saw your dancing ghost tonight
Among the swirling crowd
And the jumble of street revelers
Beneath the pulse of colored light:
A glimpse of gilded hair
Shaken off a steaming brow,
A deep spark of jade
Flashed from eyes that met mine
For an instant
And a gleam of smile
For a moment
At the Masquerade.

And I, disguised,
A shambling leper zombie
Propelled myself forward on sticks,
Pressing for a clearer sight
Before the crowd could shift
And you'd be lost again.

Lurching toward you
A foot or two stripped away the charm:
The paint so artfully applied
To shade away twenty years;
The bronzing over slack white arms;
The boots to change the height –
All conspired to fool my eye
With a cunning trick of the light.
Not you, then, no,
Nor ever is,
Nor ever will be again.

And I, disguised,
A weeping jester zombie –
Laughing fit to die
At the ways of the heart
When it tricks the eye –
Propelled myself away on sticks
Down the Promenade.

===========================
c. 2002 Todd Eliot

Muzzle

Muzzle

On paper, the words flow:
Streaming all the colors of me
Full-spectrum as they go
Eddying onward, thrashing into foam
As they collide with something
Beneath the surface - something below,
Where the deep black currents roam
Unstayed by any other thing.

The sunlight's sparkle and gleam
Off rainbow shards of froth
Dazzle-dancing on the stream,
Distracts me from the dark below
With bright-winged flittings to and fro.
I delight in teeming surfaces of things,
And love the darting, sweeping shallows.

In my mind, the images flood:
Lives and times all sinking down
Monochrome as the mud
Slumbering, the black silt compressed
To stone by water and time
While seasons pass above; flowers bud
To bloom and stand undressed
And freeze beneath thick winter rime.

Something, sure, will stir
This darkness, then roil the quiet
Muffled under snow-white fur
Mantling layers of ice above, to show
Some spark of light to glimmer and grow
With the passing of seasons and dance of time
To melt the sluggish quiet here below.

Quick with the words and let me fly, then: I am young,
And nothing hinders nor stays me
As my bright words sail forth on the page --
Till a stranger’s question comes and my mulish tongue
Locks up my lips and betrays me,
And my slumber is broken by rage.

============================
c. 2000 by Todd Eliot

11/16/97 Fifth November Fragments

11/16/97Fifth November Fragments

RECONSTRUCTION I

Some things we can easily reconstruct
Examining the evidence and facts:
From the one set of tire marks we deduct
The direction and speed of the impact,
From the dry condition of the asphalt
We rule out the weather being to blame
As a factor, nor was there any fault
In the brakes of either crumpled frame.

Blood alcohol levels of the bodies
Clearly demonstrate it was Driver A,
Impaired, who crashed headlong into Car B.
From the positions where the others lay,
We are sure one brother died instantly
Of a massive insult to head and brain,
In the lap of his twin. Mercifully,
We know the other remembers no pain
And was unaware of his sibling's death
Until he woke from unpleasant dreaming
(So he terms his coma), took a deep breath,
Saw his mother's face, and began screaming.

Examining his chart would seem to yield
A hopeful prognosis: he can now talk
(The aphasia was perhaps a mere shield
For the psyche), though he will never walk;
Although we cannot be completely sure
Of no improvement in mobility,
It is likely (because there is no cure)
He will accept his disability.
His mental faculties show not a trace
Of impairment (from this we can deduct
His stammer will improve). His fractured face
May prove more difficult to reconstruct.

==========================

c. 2002 Todd Eliot

Life with Long Hair

Marcus and I had always had rather longish hair, worn to collar-length in back, shorter in front. If our bangs hadn't been trimmed, they would have touched our chin.

Today, I came across a photo of the two of us playing in a park near the beach. We were about seven or eight, running about in shorts, and our hair was almost white. We were what they call in the South "tow-heads" (a term that confused me until Mum explain that "tow" was a kind of flax). And she only took us for a trim about once a year, as she fancied the look. She'd been a child of the sixties.

In our graduation picture, we're sporting what I think they called it a bi-level cut. Marcus joked that it was perfect for him, since he was bisexual.

I was not. I am gay. And when I was being bullied about being gay, Marcus outed himself as bisexual before I could tell him that what my tormentors were saying about me was true. We were sixteen.

By the time we were in high school, our hair had become a basic light blonde.

We once dyed it, just to see the effect. The Da came home to find Marcus with raven, blue-black hair, and me with a deep chestnut. He wasn't angry, but he did say that it brought out the Bengali in us. We bleached it out again to something approaching our natural color later in the summer, using lemon juice to restore our highlights.

A few months after high school, we were hit by a drunk driver. Marcus was killed, and I was pretty much out of it for a while. My hair continued to grow, of course, but I'd decided not to cut it. I'm not entirely sure of the reason. Perhaps I'd become accustomed to it.

I know that long hair can be a great shield when people stared. It helped to conceal the right half of my face, which had been badly scarred. The bones of it hadn't quite set right, which meant I later had to undergo having it re-broken in order to restore it to a semblance of itself.

And when I looked in the mirror, seeing Marcus (of course), it was easier to have the image softened by the veil of my hair. And my hair continued to grow.

I gave various reasons for not cutting it: I liked the look, it made me distinctive, it challenged conventional stereotypes of masculinity, and it was mine, dammit.

And it was a tribute to my bro.

Eleven years after the crash, I decided that since my hair was long enough, I'd donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides wigs for cancer patients, children, and others who have no hair. Since Locks of Love require that the hair not have been chemically treated, and be at least a nine-inch length, I qualified. I had it cut November 16, 2008: the anniversary of the crash.

I did it as a tribute to my bro.

I've realized, as time has gone by, that something that began as a defense mechanism and developed into an dearly-cherished affectation had become useful to others.

My hair is now below my collar again - almost to my shoulders in back, and (if not held back) reaches my chin in front.

I've come full circle.

Who knows, if Marcus had lived, we might have diverged in our hairstyles, as we did in our religious and spiritual lives. Mohawks, mullets, crew-cuts, buzz-cuts . . . endless possibilities.

But for now, I like being able to do pony-tails, French braids, fish-tails, Legolas braids . . . and I even braided blue ribbons into it when Brian and I hand-fasted.

It is what it is, as Life is - and so it goes on growing.