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
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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

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.


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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.

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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.

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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.

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c. 2000 by Todd Eliot