Leo Yankevich

Silver Star - 3,342 Points (October 30,1961 / Farrell, Pennsylvania)

Leo Yankevich Poems

241. Baroque Nativity Scene 3/13/2011
242. A Hater Learns About Love 7/27/2010
243. Barcelona,1936 2/12/2008
244. No Flowers, No Doves 9/22/2004
245. Ah, Love 2/6/2009
246. Eastertide 9/22/2004
247. After The Old Masters 2/7/2009
248. Break Of Dawn 2/13/2008
249. An Autumn Evening 12/26/2007
250. Babcia 4/10/2011
251. At A Suicide’s Grave(1869-1897) 8/13/2009
252. After 20 Years Of Marriage 5/12/2009
253. A Warning To Dissidents 3/6/2006
254. A Tiny Glow 9/20/2004
255. A December Wish 2/11/2008
256. Apollo’s Archaic Torso 5/4/2008

Comments about Leo Yankevich

  • Margaret O Driscoll Margaret O Driscoll (7/13/2015 4:10:00 AM)

    Glad I checked out your poetry, just read Mother In The Garden and it nearly had me in tears!

    6 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Amir Mohammad Islami Chalandar (6/6/2014 7:51:00 AM)

    excellent poems. you are great in explaining your feels. i invite you to read my poem

  • Dennis N. O'brien Dennis N. O'brien (10/27/2012 6:04:00 PM)

    Thanks for posting your poems here - I enjoy reading them.
    Best wishes
    Dennis N. O'Brien

  • Michael Shepherd (9/21/2004 8:13:00 AM)

    Leo - I am moved by and admire your poems enormously. Will you tell michael@shepherd87.fsnet.co.uk if you have published, or intend to publish? Best wishes.

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


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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