Leo Yankevich

Bronze Star - 2,085 Points (October 30,1961 / Farrell, Pennsylvania)

Leo Yankevich Poems

1. From Amoeba To Man -new- 8/25/2016
2. Cats 4/3/2016
3. The New Bleeding Hearts 4/4/2016
4. Soccer Ball 4/4/2016
5. No Still Life 4/4/2016
6. Lazarus 4/29/2015
7. Karpatia 4/29/2015
8. Hedgehog 4/29/2015
9. Grey Wolves 4/29/2015
10. Céline 7/27/2015
11. Flags 8/28/2015
12. Tine 8/28/2015
13. Hospice 8/28/2015
14. Tarn Catfish 8/28/2015
15. Martial Law, Poland,1982 4/11/2016
16. Shaman 4/14/2016
17. Poet, Christmas Eve,1986 4/14/2016
18. All We've Been Told 4/16/2016
19. Counter-Attack 4/21/2016
20. Queue,1944 4/22/2016
21. Festung Breslau,1945 4/23/2016
22. The Meeting 6/14/2016
23. The Inferno 6/16/2016
24. How To Get To Heaven -new- 8/22/2016
25. Summit 1/28/2013
26. Jacob's Ladder,1888 3/9/2013
27. Trees, Walking 3/9/2013
28. Ultima Thule 3/10/2013
29. Godfather 6/22/2013
30. Elegy For Hanns Breitenbach (1890-1945) 2/22/2014
31. Promised Land 3/9/2014
32. Before His Majesty 6/19/2014
33. The Bell-Toller 6/19/2014
34. A Hundred Since The First 8/15/2014
35. The Donetsk Morgue 8/28/2015
36. What They Found 8/28/2015
37. Buk Near Donetsk 8/28/2015
38. Lermontov, Verlaine, Trakl, Yesenin 8/28/2015
39. Do Not Shed Tears For The Drowned Boys 9/9/2015
40. Refugees 9/9/2015
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

Quasimodo

As he lies mid his retinue of rats,
oblivious to the trickling water
and the maelstrom in the babbling sewer,
one might think his nose a hovel for flies
in the low and oppressive August heat,
but gladly he sleeps the sleep of the just,
like a foetus double-crossed in the womb.

Who but the passing ethereal white clouds,

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