This article is based on this Dutch article of Martinus Benders:
https://martijnbenders.substack.com/p/daar-zet-je-toch-niet-zon-broeierige
You could argue that there’s something to it, making these early demented nursery rhymes that never quite manage to bridge the gap between childlike and childish.
But here comes my essential objection: you don’t stand next to that with such a smoldering, brooding face, do you? That intensely serious boy with an almost owl-like stare—that just doesn’t go with this infantile tralala poetry, guys.
And then we have Hans Lodeizen. That, to me, is a truly Dutch poet. If someone asked me, “Who is the most Dutch poet,” I would choose Lodeizen. The title alone: Het Innerlijk Behang.
tales and misfortunes always went hand in hand
in this land; the king
went to bed in his ermine robe
surrounded by courtiers
and slept poorly because of the relentless
murmuring of voices around him;
two maids fighting over his trousers
or a page joking about his stockings;
it was a country of strange people,
and yet: here he lived and was happy,
among the rabble he felt as at home
as among the elite;
he knew no peace
large enough to fill the immeasurable
beaches of his longing, no call
was swift enough to overtake the winds
— it was a hopeless task
to complain, and he did not complain.
Hans Lodeizen (1924–1950)
from Het innerlijk behang (1950)
Hans had it right: complaining—that’s something they don’t do here, the people of the North Sea. That would mean admitting that something’s off, that the world doesn’t balance perfectly like a well-kept ledger. And that’s the thing—they love it when things balance here. The poetry balances, the poets balance, prizes go to those who fit precisely with the image of a poet, an image crafted long ago by a committee, pruned and watered diligently like a bonsai tree that must never jump out of its pot.
To complain would mean you’re longing for something that falls outside the scope of the grant application. It would suggest you might have an idea—or worse: a vision. And that’s dangerous, because visions don’t formalize well. Poetry in the Netherlands is no longer inner wallpaper, but flame-retardant wall decoration—safe, certified, and most of all: nonflammable.
Today, if you complain, you’re muzzled with praise. You get invited to a festival in Zeeland, offered a spot on a panel about ‘poetry and the city,’ or crowned city poet of a town no one can find on a map without cheating. They wrap you in appreciation, pack you into the thick ream of literary consensus.
The real poet—the nuisance, the scatterbrain, the unmarketable one—does not live in this land. He may have been born here, but he lives somewhere else. In a language without a quality stamp. He does complain, but no one calls it that—they call it misunderstood. And so, silence reigns in the kingdom.
What Lodeizen is saying here is that so much is wrong in this land that trying to even begin to say something about it is a futile exercise, and so he keeps his mouth shut. That’s probably the intelligent stance if you want to lead a tolerable life here.
*
Alright then, on to the more modern creations.
Amina Belôrf • Reculer pour mieux sauter
as featured on Neerlandistiek.nl
A hummingbird breaks the silence
hovers with a folded note
in the chest above the pillow
the flowers paint the room
at the blue window, evenly stacked
coins wrapped in cling film
the shrinking of hopeless Braem
tower blocks stacking pain of these times
Relatable, that stacking pain. Honestly, I almost feel it in my own body while reading this. That shrinking of the hopeless Braem tower blocks!!!
the wallpaper slowly tears, the crew
takes shelter in this ferry boat
Take shelter in the ferry boat, is what I think, while the hummingbird hovers with the folded note in its chest above the pillow. The ferry boat!!!
with no destination, no one catches a glance
who will read the names aloud?
Goddammit! Who will read the names aloud in the ferry boat with the FOLDED note????
Then follows the most brilliant line of this excellent poem:
I imagine a world of berry bramble
This recognition nearly struck me like a sledgehammer. I sometimes drink berry juice. And sometimes bramble juice. Yes. This is pure contemplative ecstasy. Thinking here becomes berry-making. Grammar no longer needs to adhere to logic—so long as the juice is dark, the tempo slow, and the bark adequately nestled. It’s poetry as wellness: you learn nothing, but you do feel temporarily special.
And meanwhile, that folded note is still sitting there like a Chekhovian pistol that never fires. What does it say? “Warning: this poetry may contain traces of meaning”? Or just: “don’t forget to do the laundry”?
growing up without a score / is very often starting over
We end with what the poet presumably sees as the moral, the inscription on the temple of contemporary sensitivity: vague enough to be universal, generic enough to recycle in every poetry prize acceptance speech or during the appointment of a new city poet in Lokeren.
The hummingbird, the folded note, the pillow, the cling-film-wrapped coins—they’re all ingredients in a salad no one ordered, but that gets served piping hot every morning at 9:00 a.m. to subscribers of Laurens Jz Coster. And no one dares confront the chef—because he’s won a literary award.
The best of the 44 poems. So it is proclaimed.
Martinus Benders – 30-03-2025