Leo Yankevich

Rookie - 154 Points (October 30,1961 / Farrell, Pennsylvani)

Leo Yankevich Poems

1. Mary Magdalene 2/11/2008
2. Mary 5/7/2008
3. Market 4/5/2009
4. Summit 1/28/2013
5. Jacob's Ladder,1888 3/9/2013
6. Trees, Walking 3/9/2013
7. Ultima Thule 3/10/2013
8. Godfather 6/22/2013
9. Before His Majesty 6/19/2014
10. The Bell-Toller 6/19/2014
11. A Hundred Since The First 8/15/2014
12. Elegy For Hanns Breitenbach (1890-1945) 2/22/2014
13. Promised Land 3/9/2014
14. Hedgehog 4/29/2015
15. Grey Wolves 4/29/2015
16. The Careful Gardener 6/22/2013
17. Céline -new- 7/27/2015
18. Lazarus 4/29/2015
19. Karpatia 4/29/2015
20. Why Wars Happen, Beings On Earth Die 8/16/2014
21. The Adolf Hitler Canal 4/8/2013
22. Esse 6/19/2014
23. Six Feet Beneath The Snow 2/20/2015
24. Wake 3/9/2013
25. Childhood Leaves 3/9/2013
26. Pilitak 1/28/2013
27. Kolyma,1937 7/27/2010
28. Koniuchy, Eastern Poland,1944 7/27/2010
29. Metaphysics 5/7/2008
30. Reunion 3/13/2009
31. Old Tarts 9/4/2012
32. Lobb Ghyll Viaduct 8/3/2012
33. Tombstone 6/17/2012
34. Invocation 3/14/2009
35. Kant’s Shadow 2/12/2008
36. Tobias To His Angel 9/5/2010
37. Somewhere Over Germany,1945 5/12/2009
38. Vengeance Is Mine, Says The Lord,1943 5/12/2009
39. Two Dates 2/11/2005
40. Rust Belt 11/12/2008
Best Poem of Leo Yankevich

Apollo’s Archaic Torso

(after the German of Rainer Maria Rilke)

We have no knowledge of his ancient brow
where pippins ripen. Yet his torso gleams,
reflecting the candela, luminous streams
that yet pour from his gaze, his glance’s glow

still radiant, though dimmed. If not, his bare
breast would not blind you in the silent turn
of hip and thighs, a smile not flash and burn
through groins, his genitals not ever glare.

If not, this stone would seem deformed and small,
the light beneath his shoulder’s sudden fall
not seem a preying panther’s shimmering mane, ...

Read the full of Apollo’s Archaic Torso

The Last Silesian

Above us: cawing rooks and grey clouds.
Around us: leafless trees and falling snow.
It’s late in January, 60 years
since Gleiwitz-Petersdorf was “liberated.”

Anne, a frail and tiny woman of eighty,
and the last Silesian on our street,
points her left hand toward the frozen ground
and rests her right upon a walking stick.

[Hata Bildir]