Middle Eastern Pop-Culture Poetry

If you ever really want to know just how different American pop-culture is from, say, pop-culture in the Arab world, just take a gander at some of the top rated TV shows in each land and you'll notice some startling differences. Actually, forget "shows" plural. How about "show" singular? Top rated show in America these days? American Idol. Top rated show in the Arab world? The Million's Poet. That's right. Poet.

Here's the gist of the show: While on American Idol, contestants get on stage and sing a song of their choice (which falls under the guides of whatever the ridiculous theme is that week), on The Million's Poet, contestants get on stage and read a poem. My. That sounds...well...simply awful.

First of all, I had no idea that the Arab world was so into poetry. Is that new? I can't think of many things that I would rather do less than go somewhere and listen to someone read their poetry in front of a microphone. Oh, no, wait, wait! I thought of something. Going somewhere to listen to someone read their haiku in front of a microphone. I'd rather hang myself than do that. It's not that I'm specifically against poetry or anything. It's just that I don't think I get it. Maybe it sounds nice, I don't know. But it certainly isn't going to make me all weepy or anything. Now, when some of those American Idol folks try to hit those high notes and they're screaming like someone just nailed both of their feet to the floor, that can get me a little weepy (but that's only because it feels like both of my eardrums are bleeding). But poetry? I think not.

Bottom line here is that I'm not a fan of poetry. But that's not what this is about. No, this is about how the Arab world has found their very own Susan Boyle, so to speak, through their hit show The Million's Poet. They have found this poet whose poetry really resonates with a lot of the folks who are doing the voting, both in the audience and by text message, just like American Idol. (Yes. There is voting. By text message. For a poetry show. This story is so modern and yet, so backwards all at the same time. And this gets weirder, believe me.) There are even three judges, but if you're thinking that you're going to be seeing the Arabian equivalent of Paula Abdul, you're completely mistaken. Here's one of the judges now. Behold!

(I said it got weirder, what did you expect?!) According to an article over there at The Huffington Post, a one Hissa Hilal "...recites poetry that brazenly calls out for women's rights and the end of Islamic extremism." Wow! That's pretty gutsy of...um...Hissa? Yes. Yes, it is. Even more gutsy considering that Hissa is a woman. And even more weirder when you see the show in action. Behold!

Oh, what the hell is that? THAT is a one Hissa Hilal, "...a housewife and mother of four from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia." She's dressed like that because "As is required of Saudi women appearing in public, she is covered from head to toe in a traditional abaya." Now, I realize that "traditional abaya" is a hard phrase to remember. I have a different name for it which will be much easier to remember. I call it "the beekeeper's uniform". Can you believe that's just a regular part of a hit reality show over there in Dubai and wherever else? Totally expected. Totally "normal". Not a problem for them. Not a problem. Wow.

I'm kind of thinking that she has to be a little bit relieved to be in the beekeeper's uniform, as "Hilal's poetry has, not surprisingly, led to death threats by Islamic extremists." Ah, yes. The ever predictable death threats by Islamic extremists so that they can, once again, show just how completely reasonable they really are. Hilal says of the death threats "Killing a human being is so easy for them, it is always an option." Granted, there have been days when I could only wish that killing a human being was an option. But for it to actually always be an option? It's barbaric to say the least (but I can see the handiness in it all if you don't let it go to your head).

Last week in the voting, "...she received the highest overall score in last week's semifinals, pushing her through to this Wednesday's final (and its $1.3 Million prize for the winner). " Holy crap. 1.3 million bucks?! What do you get if you win American Idol? A record deal? Is that record deal worth 1.3 million bucks?! I guess in some cases (Carrie Underwood, Kelly Clarkson) it could be, but am I really to leave this conversation thinking that Taylor Hicks and Fantasia ended up with anything in the freaking neighborhood of $1.3 million? I don't think anyone could be expected to believe that, really.

Hissa Hilal claims not to be afraid for herself, but says that she is kind of worried about her children. Seems reasonable, considering the beekeeper uniform wearing society that she lives in. I'd be worried as hell about my kids. But she does what she does because "I am hoping my daughters won't have to cover their faces and they'll live a better life." You know what lady? Me too.

Seriously, how insecure must some folks be (Translation: How small must their penis actually be?) that they have to make up some sort of crazy rule for their crazy lifestyle that says that women must wear the beekeeper's uniform? And it is a crazy rule that was made up. The beekeeper's uniform came into existence right about the same time that Star Wars came out. I think some of those Arab folks saw Darth Vader in his little outfit and thought that seemed like a good thing to implement for the women folk. Since that mask and all of that hissing would have been tricky to pull off, they just went with the beekeeper look instead. Darth Vader, the beekeeper uniform, both extremely similar to each other.

I'm hoping that this chick wins the $1.3 million and uses it to get herself and her family the heck out of Dodge. I'm afraid that if she wins and sticks around for very long that she's going to find herself sans head one day. I can understand her wanting to hang around and further her cause, but it's really hard to further much when you're dead. I'm just sayin'.

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Is There A Back Up Poet? Just In Case?

Meanwhile, as a select group of people continue to freak out over the selection of Pastor Rick Warren to do something at the Presidential Inauguration (all I can figure out is that he's going to speak. I don't know why, I don't know what about. He'll be there and there will be words coming out of his mouth. That's all I've got for you.), there is a simply grand story that seems to be getting lost in all of the made up fervor over Pastor Warren. And what's the one thing that would make for even better pre-inaugural scrutinizing fodder than a "controversial" pastor? That's right, the Inaugural Poet! What? Wait. There's an inaugural poet?

There is NOW! Meet one Elizabeth Alexander, a friend of Barry's and his choice to write and recite a poem at the inauguration. Now, just because you're about to be sworn in as President of the United States, that doesn't mean that you have to have a poet. You can go poetless. After all, there have only been three other poets prior to Ms. Alexander and the first one was Robert Frost who was selected by JFK, so it's not like some age-old practice steeped in tradition. The only other President who felt the need for things to rhyme on a cold January afternoon was Bill Clinton and he felt the need to do so twice. (It must have felt pretty good the first time in order for Bill to want to do it again.)

Now, if I were being inaugurated as President of the United States (Hey! Stop laughing over there!) and I had to pick an Inaugural Poet, I'd go with Dr. Seuss. Yeah, I know he's dead, but I'd have one of his relatives fill in or something. It would be awesome! You can say anything in a Dr. Seuss-like fashion and it will sound cheery and good! You could stand up there and announce impending doom and it would just sound cheery!

I must confess!

This country's a mess!

And by the end of the year

You'll have a lot less!

See? See how I did that? AND you liked it even though the message it sends is "We suck." But do you see how you just didn't care when it was presented in that manner? It's all about delivery. Well, that and location, location, location.

But back to the poet. If you're going to be all rhyme-y, but not in a Seuss-esque manner, you really have to try and make it so that people want to hear your poem. That's why there isn't such a big call for poets these days. They leave out the Seuss and they leave out the stuff-that-people-like factor as well. And then what do you have? Open-mike poetry night once a month at the local pub, that is correct. I mention these things because I've run across and read some of Ms. Alexander's work. It is, in a word, breathtaking. It is also, in a word, long. Really long. So I'll just give you a sample. You can find the entire poem and others (oh, there are others, all right!) on Elizabeth Alexander's website. But, in the meantime, behold!

"Is
funky, is
leaky, is
a soggy, bloody crotch, is
sharp jets of breast milk shot straight across the room,
is gaudy, mustard-colored poop, is
postpartum tears that soak the baby’s lovely head."

Oh, what the hell is that?! Um, does that say "mustard-colored poop"? (Gives a whole new meaning to "Grey Poupon" now, doesn't it?)And did she also mention a "soggy, bloody crotch"? (Enjoying this yet, guys?!) Yes, I believe she mentioned both of those, um, things. And just so you know, in case you can't bring yourself to read the entire thing, she also mentions, in the same poem, "poop" "apricot juice" "pregnant" "sensible shoes", a "mammoth giblet", "Tupperware", a "bloody mesa", "cast-off meat", "breast", "placenta", a "Senegalese head wrap", "OB-Gyn", "a loaf of whole wheat bread", "electric breast pumps", "each exhausted tit", "human cargo", and of course, the ones you were waiting for, "Karl Malden" and "The Streets of San Francisco". Um, WTF?!

I'll be the first to admit, I don't understand a whole lot of poetry. I mean, I get it, I just don't understand why it's supposed to be so great. What? Because it has short and choppy little sentences? (That would be Reason Number ONE why I could never become a poet.) I don't know, I just don't get it. But before now, the poetry that I didn't get was fairly normal. This poetry that I don't get, seems a bit....what's the word?.....oh, whack-a-doo.

Seriously. A placenta? Karl Malden? Well, I tried to give this woman the benefit of the doubt and thought that maybe she was just having an overly creative (I use that term loosely) day when she came up with that, um, piece of work. So I read some other poems. She has one called "The Venus Hottentot". I really like the word "hottentot" and not just because it reminds me of something else that I love, tater tots. But when I read this poem, it was nothing like the hottentots I like to think of. No, it was a little more....what's the word?......oh, whack-a-doo. Behold! Hottentot-ism!

"Her genitalia
will float inside a labeled

pickling jar in the Musee
de l’Homme on a shelf

above Broca’s brain
"The Venus Hottentot.”

Elegant facts await me
Small things in this world are mine."

WHY is no one talking about THIS?!?! Are you kidding me?! Wait, don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with this woman being the Inaugural Poet. (If I have a problem with anything, it's that she gets $20,000 to do this. That seems excessive, especially whatever she cranks out is anything like the Hottentot Homage here.) I'm just perplexed as to why this hasn't been jumped all over yet! Are all of the media outlets who have been in the tank for Barry since Day One afraid that it will damage his Messiah-like image that his veal calf-esque followers believe him to have? I really can't speculate too much because my jaw is still trying to pick itself up off of the floor. But every other person who is intentionally or inadvertently thrust into the media spotlight, especially if the person has anything at all to do with the campaign or politics in general (ie, Joe the Freaking Plumber, Reverend Jeremiah Wright, the yet-to-be-acquired Presidential Pet, etc.), they are soon watching their entire life flash before them...usually on the 10 o'clock news.

Back to the Hottentot for a moment. (There's a sentence I never thought I'd say, kind of always hoped that I would, and really didn't want to in this context.) Again, I repeat, I don't get a lot of this poetry stuff, so there could be a reasonable interpretation from this excerpt I'm about to share, but I don't know what it is. Maybe you do. Behold! Hottentot, Part Deux!

"Monsieur Cuvier investigates
between my legs, poking, prodding
sure of his hypothesis.
I half expect him to pull silk
scarves from inside me, paper poppies,
then a rabbit! He complains
at my scent and does not think
I comprehend"

Well, OK then. WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD ABOUT THIS BEFORE NOW?!!? Good Lord, we're all doomed.....

Look, I'm all for new things. Change is good (from what I hear). But I don't know if I'm ready for the sort of change that has things like "between the legs investigations" mentioned in the Inauguration Ceremony by the Inaugural Poet. I just don't think I'm that evolved. Actually, I don't know if I will ever be that evolved. I don't want to forever more associate Barry with "placenta". It would be wrong. Not to mention disturbing. On many levels.

But I do trust Barry. I think he has pretty sound judgment. So if the bloody placenta woman is good enough for him, well, :::gulp:::: then I guess the bloody placenta woman is good enough for me too. (Who said that?! WTF?!)

So be sure to tune in to the inauguration ceremony on January 20, 2009! And listen in for any of the oh-so-NOT-poetic words discussed here today. (You know, "placenta", "Tupperware" and the like.) By the way, to give you an idea of what sort of poetry would have been perfectly acceptable to me to have read at the Presidential Inauguration, I present to you the best poem ever by a cartoonist impersonating a penguin impersonating a poet.

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