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Poetry Sundays are meant to initiate, introduce and appreciate poetry in all its forms to the widest possible audience, with an emphasis on poetic “discourse” (said, recited, sung). Me, prince of the street, so he presented himself in one of his most beautiful collections. Born and died in Thionville (1892-1969), Robert Laverny was an emblematic figure of Nancy where a square still bears his name. Brilliant mind, rebellious dandy, ferociously nonconformist, he preferred the bohemian (and patachon) life to the luster of literary glories. Traumatized by the two wars, he took refuge in poetry and … in the diving bottle. Tracing, in the company of his little dog Mouky, the right word and the conciseness of the form, he left us with La Folle Etoile, Reflets and other Vers de circumstance, a luminous work. That of an authentic “celestial wanderer”. “Oh! This voice turned into a human whistle Let it go against the door, Thunder from heaven.” Poetic encounters.
