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This article is based on this German article of philosopher Martinus Benders: https://martijnbenders.substack.com/p/ben-ik-een-provo

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Am I a provo?

Made great progress with my Autobahn Playlist. You can now drive to Rimini without hearing the same song twice. Why Rimini? Well, my late Uncle Frans Benders used to drive there every year without stopping. More Italy fans in the family, it seems.

I’m not sure if the title provocateur, which I was given by ED, is entirely justified. At first glance, you might think so. A person who sends someone dressed as Bert from Sesame Street to a poetry competition and submits lines like I hope you die when you read this certainly has a provocative nature.

Some might even argue that if I really wanted to participate, I shouldn’t have sent in a Bert-like figure with such statements.

A provo. Challenging authority. But in this case, that line came from Bill Knott, whose other translated poem I also submitted, and which also made it into the top 100. Knott constantly lamented being unrecognized, so I thought it would be amusing to get him into the Turing Top 100.

So it wasn’t even my own line. I mentioned that from the start—unlike Stella Bergsma, who stole a line from Facebook and used it to open her novel without citing the source. You have those types, the celebrities, the public figures.

Was my intention to provoke authority? No, because I don’t see the people running these things as authorities. I wanted to create a surreal situationist artwork.

More of a Lynchian idea. The result had an eerie quality due to the details: Bert spoke in a high-pitched voice and kept drinking Safari through the eye of his costume.

(Unfortunately, the video was lost when I carelessly deleted my Myrmex YouTube account.)

It had something provocative, that much is true, but the primary goal wasn’t to shock. It was about creating an unexpected experience that stretched the boundaries of traditional poetry competitions. Giving people something special to witness.

Poetry competitions always follow a format. And such a format is somewhat akin to a hospital protocol. Organizers of these events prefer the most predictable candidates. When I was nominated for the Buddingh’ Prize, they even called me beforehand to let me know I had lost—to prevent me from breaking down in tears during the award ceremony.

A predictable process is the priority.

It’s no wonder, then, that organizers seem unable to find me. Did I cause this myself? Of course. I don’t want to be the little man with glasses who politely follows protocol, the dutiful poet. But what I didn’t cause myself is the media silence. When you send out a poetry collection containing LSD tabs and are met with absolute silence, you know what’s going on. As soon as the media starts shying away from commotion and situationism, when they suppress sensation rather than amplify it, you have to wonder: why does China have dissident poets, but the West does not?

Argos Libertos

My good friend Argos Libertos, who maintains an open-air library (the only one in the world) on Büyükada, posted a Turkish poem yesterday, which I have translated into two languages:

Okul her yerdir.
O kül seni yakar.
Okült evrendir.

Beğendiğin kadar yok olursun.
Uydurduğunu sanan canlı türünün
Son oyuncağıdır konstelasyon.

Argos Libertos

English:

Everything is schooling.
The ash burns you.
It is the occult universe.

Perish as much as you like.
You are the last toy of a species that thinks
it made this up—a family of illusions.

Argus Libertus

Dutch:

Alles is scholing.
Die as verbrandt je.
Het is het occulte heelal.

Verga zoveel je wilt.
Je bent het laatste speeltje van een soort die denkt
dat het dit verzonnen heeft—een familie van illusies.

Argus Libertus