Leo Yankevich Poems

It’s night again. Above the dreaming hill
stars are so close your finger reaches them.
You’ve downed your pint of beer, have had your fill
of darts and cards, and piss beneath a stem
...

You take the book from the shelf,
hold it in your hand,
crack it open, leaf
through pages, stop at a line:
...

(Eastern Siberia)

From this hillside full of multiple graves
(marked by discs made from the lids of tin cans,
...

(Gleiwitz,1946)

The old Romanesque church in Petersdorf,
closed since the Germans left the neighbourhood,
...

I can still hear your voice
although decades have passed—
the baritone of a man
who is approaching fifteen.
...

The peasant man still burns his leaves
which rise into Romania’s skies
like smouldering stars above its eaves.
With grubby hands he shields his eyes,
...

Although a sea of whisky filled each lung,
he would have called out from beneath a wave
just to console the living, but his tongue
was heavy as a stone inside the grave.
...

Indistinguishable from the dark, a rat
crawls through debris. Above, aloof and pale,
the moon shines on all the heavens and hells
of the city, shines on the good and bad
...

'O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre,
Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,
Die ungebornen Enkel.'
...

Suddenly, I am astride a donkey
with Sancho Panza. As usual, my head
is in the clouds. And I am stubborn, stupid
as always. Please forgive my making so
...