Echoes of Identity

There are two pieces of work from this book that I immediately felt a strong connection to and made several notes about: “Echo and Elixir 3” and part one of “Vicinity (A Sequence).” From this beginning section of the book, I found very complex associations to identity that Khaled Mattawa weaved between seemingly simple words. From “Echo and Elixir 3,” these three sections called out to me the most:

“People do not ask how long you’ve been away,

but what have you brought?

And being away is all you bring.”

The above section introduces us to the poem, and as an introduction, this statement is a pretty heavy one to take in. It is true for the most part that upon your return from wherever you’ve been away from, no one really asks you how long you’ve been away, why you’ve been away, what being away has done to you (if it’s done anything at all). And this question of what you’ve brought is so interesting to read because it can be seen as several things. The first that I thought of, mostly due to the mention of duty-free shops, is the most literal translation; if you’ve brought any gifts or trinkets from where you had gone away to, which begins to play into the idea of the identities people assume as consumers and how they become consumed by their own personal consumerism. The other way I read this was a more abstract “gift” or “trinket,” and it was one for the self. I mentioned earlier how no one really/genuinely/truly/etc. asks what being away has effected in your life and in asking this question keeping that thought in mind, one is compelled to ask themselves what they’ve brought aka learned, accomplished and so on. But in the end of it all, being away is all that you’ve brought back. I’m trying to process this idea, especially when I personally place myself in it since most peers my age romanticize over the idea of going far, far away and returning with hoards of newfound knowledge and wisdom without ever taking the time to think that you might not come back with anything at all.

“And the life in the hands you shake,

the poetry in the sand more than the poetry in poetry.”

First of all, THESE TWO LINES ARE SO INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL. There is such a high degree of the significance of life placed into something that seems so common and small (the act of handshaking). I was stuck on that one line for a long time because we’ve all learned that the act of shaking hands is something done out of politeness and courtesy or as a professional greeting. What we aren’t taught is to think about how in our hands, which are full of life, we are holding the life of someone else’s for a moment. The line following this line seems so appropriate because of how it also places a high degree of importance (the meaning, interpretation, value, etc. of poetry) in something so common and small (sand). The second line also stuck out to me because it made me recall previous discussions we’ve held in regards to writing poetry and how we can’t look at something in nature without associating it to something else.

“I am a spirit and a body.

The trees speak a language of light and thorns.

Let me tell you a story now.

You see a city in the clouds

and give it a woman’s name,

always a woman’s name.”

OKAY, reading this section of the poem forced me to take a break and a breath. There is so much to unpack in each single line. The statement “I am a spirit and a body” was something strange to read for me. I’ve never had the idea to separate my spirit from my body. I’ve always felt the two were connected. But in saying that one is both a spirit and a body creates an entirely different meaning than simply separating the two. By stating this, I feel the speaker creates dual identities for themself, one that is finite and fallible (body: human, living creature), and one that is infinite and pure (spirit: soul, something otherworldly, greater being or power). The other section that I bolded caught my eye because I went on this internal rant over women and how they are subjected to becoming objects. It’s common for people to name their property with female names (cars, boats, etc.). I’m wholly unsure of how this practice began or why it’s still perpetuated, but Mattawa explicitly states that it is always a woman’s name. To this effect, I started rambling in my head about how objects are given names commonly given to women and how this in turn affects the value of a woman. If you are always associated to an object, what does this mean? That you yourself are an object? Or that your personal worth is equated to an object, something without moral or opinion? I DON’T KNOW, BUT I WAS LIKE DAMN WHEN I READ THIS because of how it creates a dual identity crisis for women and people who identify as women that differs from the dual identity of being a spirit and a body.

From part one of “Vicinity (A Sequence),” these two sections spoke to me:

“What do you mean to me now

that I have become your substance?

You a moment

                        and I am your duration,

a web of instincts       refined

            toward a pure savagery,

                                                paradisal, pubescent.”

The question posed at the beginning of that section and the answer following it really bummed me out. There is such a potent sense of dependence on another to create (and perhaps validate?) your own identity. This identity crisis is much different than the ones I’ve previously mentioned because it does not solely involve the self; here, other factors (people) affect the self. The decision to use the word “web” was very skillful, since it creates an image of desperate entanglement, that one thing has power and hold over the other.

“’Verily , beloved, the hearts in this heart

                                                                        chant your name.’

The ballpoint threatens

                                    to carve it

                                                on the totem pole,

            to prod the faces

                                    that betray                 nothing.”

I’m not entirely sure what this section is inspired by, but I really liked the reference to the hearts and how it ties back to the beginning of the poem. Part one begins with “[a]n artificial heart whirs.” The word artificial is typically used to address something that is fake or, probably more appropriate in this sense, something that is not genuine (earnest, true). Nearing the end of the poem, someone says that “the hearts in this heart chant your name.” Keeping the beginning of the poem in mind, I read this as a lie. A desperate plea to whomever is dependent on the speaker or vice versa.

I’m not sure if I’m even accurately touching base with some of the ideas Mattawa wrote about, but geez I really loved reading through this book.