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.
 
===============================
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

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."

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

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

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