This article is based on this Dutch article by Martinus Benders
A police dog bites a student protesting against genocide in the leg on the campus of Radboud University. Geert Wilders posts a declaration of love to the dog on X—and inside, the professors are tapping out their bland little essays, failing to mention what is happening outside their window—after all, Wilders is already doing it for them. No, just your usual little poems:
and every wound a wondrous colorful rooster
palm a cheerful wonder shell
and
the feet collapse and
laughing we roll into the laughing
And then we recall Slavoj Žižek’s words: poetry is particularly well suited to legitimizing genocides:
The Lesson of Superimpositions in Art (Philosophical Salon, August 26, 2024) — “my motto is ‘no ethnic cleansing without poetry’; that’s why wars are sustained … by the poetic-military complex.”
So what can a poet do not to contribute to that? Well, the good news is: nothing. You don’t have to do anything, really. Just don’t reproduce the predatory narrative and you’ll be excluded automatically—because the poetic-military complex will eventually highlight only the poets who know how to be usefully on message.
Sometimes they make a mistake and before you know it, the King himself is standing there proclaiming that we must arm ourselves to the teeth—even though he really isn’t allowed to, as the King must not take a political stance—but oops, can we truly begrudge him a few poetic ambitions?
On X you often see the glorification of state violence—one of the key features of fascism. It’s distinctly observable how some people appear to become almost sexually aroused by the idea of being allowed to harm others.
And then there’s the swarm of silent ones, who let others do the dirty work for them. Neocon-leftists.
Ah, people, what a mess. Let’s instead turn to the useless bumblebees: this morning I attempted to turn the opening poem of my Willem collection into a country song, with a pinch of George Brassens stirred in. It turned into a beautiful song that barely resembles the original poem anymore:
Please, please, please
let me believe in your heresy,
I don’t want you to marry me.
Let something set us adrift.
Please, please, please —
let’s spare poor Cupid’s arrow
the plunge into love’s marrow.
So many lovers played that game,
and with their joy they paid the claim
for daring such a sacrilege.
Bumblebee, old bumblebee,
looping through forget-me-nots —
sting a heart, then set it free,
buzz away — we’ll tie no knots.
Bumblebee, old bumblebee,
looping through forget-me-nots —
buzz away — we’ll tie no knots.
In the honey-lit stanza of our flight
we muffle time’s funereal chimes;
take me for the vagrant sun —
take me for a wind that cries,
for swaggering chrysanthemums
strutting through brazen noon,
for barefoot, tipsy daisies
waltzing on dawn-drunk dew,
for every rogue wildflower
the free wind dares to fling —
anything but the cold,
tight circle of a ring.
Bumblebee, old bumblebee,
looping through forget-me-nots —
sting a heart, then set it free,
buzz away — we’ll tie no knots.
Bumblebee, old bumblebee,
looping through forget-me-nots —
buzz away — we’ll tie no knots.
Wide-eyed dandelions
loose their feathered ghosts;
we are free, free, free. (freeee…)
Old bumblebees.
*
Oh, and I just sold my first CUCK THE FANON shirt. Thanks!
