Yvon Né (Netherland)
Yvon Né (1958) is a Dutch poet and visual artist. She studied at the Academy for Visual Art, St. Joost and works as art professional in Breda. She is the author of 17 books of poems. A number of them came out with the Amsterdam publishing houses De Bezige Bij and De Geus. Her collected poems (1990-2005) and her novel ‘Het scheve meisje’ (2016) were published by De Geus. Her poems appeared in more than 40 anthologies, poetry accompagied by her drawings appeared in special editions. She also designed poetry lines in commission for bridges and public buildings.
From a jury report: ‘The poetry of Yvon Né, who is also known as designer and painter, balances between two elementary realities: the reality of life and its projection. The everpresent theme in her verse is transition in which new reality is tentatively emerging before separation from past reality has been achieved. The result is continual movement which infuses her poetry with dynamic character.’
More information: www.yne.nl
What a wonderful day!
We‘re not afraid.
In no place a fuze.
I can shut out well the world.
At times I’m afraid
I can’t bring it in again.
At the gate the detector shrills.
The officer checks my body
and hits upon the iron clothespin on my bra.
When I give an explanation for a rarity,
usually just something welling
from a happy kind of disregard, trouble takes off.
Unfortunately I utter some trifles that cause agitation.
I hear myself naming the burning scent
that enters my nose from an eating court close by.
Now so many sliding contacts start running,
full many a brain is sparked up,
which also puts into unmeant spotlight
the manifold functions on the control panels,
all bets are off for a fair final say.
After more to-and-fro
of question and answer lacking thread
all of a sudden they let us through.
The cellist’s patent leather shoes
In the front. Below the edge
of stage. The string quartet plays.
Centuries are enclosed within these tones.
Reunited they instantly awake.
Time inciting us denying time
If desired, it can be unfolded.
A wrinckled germ to sprout.
No. Not to be touched.
A foldable seemingly nothing.
‘I offer you something out of this world.’
A nativity scene.
The lights go out. An eyewink.
Out of nowhere I’m overcome
by fragrance of shoeshine.
A spaceship scents like this
delinking from soil.
The cellist’s patent leather shoes,
unprompted, mirror the whole world
Do masses of paper still come
to your ears or do they kiss earth?
I heard you wear white sheets up there.
That daily to you is passed a paper eye mask
ripped off from fairest canopies.
You may tear the old one into shreds
and make it snow to earth.
As for the rest, is it quite void and white as well?
I guess not one One City song is heard
for summoning the crowds for centuries.
We living should glorify the other way around
all soils, folks, as manifoldness is not over-top.
Perhaps you saw that to my camera’s added
a remoteness lense, in few steps only
walkers nudge the horizon.
No field is cut out from the show.
And they still can’t look over.
For you it will be an old little stogie
or the child’s sandal box (‘a coin a show’),
verily, I’m aware, just let you know, I’m on the edge,
afloat from speech, that kind of aphasy,
well, thereof to you I’ll fly these lines,
it might express my childish faith
enclosing heaven, earth, and you and all white space,
thereof not a thing is cut out,
no, nothing yet, no thing’s out –