This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders
In 1998, a controversy erupted over the C. Buddingh’ Prize when Erik Menkveld, then working at Poetry International, was nominated for his collection “De karpersimulator.” Due to his involvement with the organizing body, his nomination was withdrawn, and the jury decided not to award a winner that year. This incident was discussed in various media at the time, including NRC Handelsblad, which reported on June 15, 1998, that Menkveld had indeed been granted the prize, but it was not presented to him because of his role at Poetry International.
What a strange course of events. Because if someone essentially nominates themselves, why would you then go on to say that ‘the prize is awarded but not presented?’ What does that even mean? That Erik Menkveld, as a punishment for being part of the organization, was not allowed to present the prize to himself? That’ll teach him! No, it’s quite clear why yesterday’s review caused such a stir: I disrupted a whitewashing operation. The man attempted, after being tainted by a scandal as a debutant—which did not cause him to step down, but rather meant that he could not present the prize to himself (shame on him!)—after that debacle, he produced two poorly received collections, and the grand poet game was essentially over. A new path needed to be taken. It was first essential to show that he was indeed concerned with literary greatness. Even Van Oorschot publishing house organized a ‘review contest’ for the book for the first time in history, so they likely saw it coming. Benders reported in from Istanbul, and the rest is history.
Modern individuals are inclined to call everything ‘networking,’ but the distinct strategy in which a publishing house tries to control as many administrative seats as possible is not really networking but rather deceit and abuse of power. Networking does not typically come at the expense of others, but constantly occupying seats does. Networking does not need to be hidden in secrecy. That is, in fact, one of the key points of my lawsuit: the anonymity does not stem from a necessity caused by rabid writers. The anonymity exists to conceal conflicts of interest. My collection Gedichten om te Lezen in het Donker was handled by three different people from Van Oorschot publishing house. The publishing house that was already playing fast and loose with integrity and was central to one of this century’s biggest literary scandals. The publishing house that even then employed debutants with an extremely aggressive occupation strategy. Was Menkveld a perpetrator or a victim? Who can say. Such a debutant often does what he is told by the boss. But receiving such a review from me after two poorly received collections must have been tough.
Yet Menkveld played a key role again at the Buddingh Prize in 2009, even though he had officially stopped in that role in 2002, as I read. Was he back to deal with the person who had thwarted his literary comeback? Because Menkveld was the presenter that evening, and he hit me ‘for fun’ with the bouquet as I left the stage:
Which, by the way, is not visible on camera. I had long realized they were trying to play a trick on me, so I decided to set up a playful performance.
The criticism is the tragic constant in the mustache of the prize
is, of course, a parody of a remark by Federico Garcia Lorca about fascism. The show a parody on Live is Live by Opus:
Which in turn was parodied by Laibach:
Juror Wim Brands (Van Oorschot publishing house) sat side by side with Janita Monna (Trouw) and Erik Menkveld (Van Oorschot publishing house) in the front row, silently watching the performance. Then he went onstage, and with a flushed face, declared that Mischa Andriessen (Trouw) was the predetermined winner.
We couldn’t really rehearse the performance. I had quickly scribbled everything on a beer coaster, flown in from Istanbul—this was not the greatest literature or performance, of course, but it was playful and somewhat memorable.
That was also largely due to Bart’s cool-headed water-drinking act.
But in 1998, the prize was consequently not awarded. That must have had a discouraging effect on the other nominees at the time. One of them was, for instance, the Flemish poet Miguel Declercq. After 2001, he only published one more collection in twenty-four years. Not so surprising when authorities stage such an obvious crooked chair dance. Writing truly good poems is already difficult enough without corruption.
Komrij refers— in “The 21st Century in 185 Poems”—to the anthology “In Other Words: Young Poets from North and South” from 1960. It featured poets—he names several, including Declercq by name—who soon vanished. ‘They must still be wandering around somewhere in the Kalahari Desert,’ he adds wryly.
The other nominees at the time were Frans Kuipers with “Wolkenjagen” and Peter Theunynck with “Berichten van de Pan American Airlines & Co”
Frans Kuipers wrote two more collections and then called it quits. His last work was published in 2003. Komrij considered him one of the greatest poets, but still a poet who decidedly quit rather soon. No, Peter Theunynck is the only one who continued writing after this debut prize—unfortunately, in my estimate, he is the least of the three poets.
And so, dear reader, we can conclude that this ‘encouragement prize’ often turns out to be a curious turning point. How easily it turns against its purpose and transforms the prize into a discouragement award. How often does the encouragement itself echo rejection, misapprehension, and the silent awareness that the literary field does not always thrive on fairness. If poets already struggle to maintain their inner voices, what happens to them when a semi-official world declares that the seats are already taken, that poetry is a game played in closed circles?
Martijn Benders, 02-11-2024
