Leo Yankevich Poems
|246.||At A Suicide’s Grave(1869-1897)||8/13/2009|
|247.||Six Feet Beneath The Snow||2/20/2015|
|251.||A Warning To Dissidents||3/6/2006|
|252.||Apollo’s Archaic Torso||5/4/2008|
|253.||The Garrett Loft||6/7/2011|
|254.||Ludwig Wittgenstein Visits George Trakl In Hospital, Cracow,6 November 1914||8/13/2009|
|259.||After 20 Years Of Marriage||5/12/2009|
Comments about Leo Yankevich
After 20 Years Of Marriage
Here is a river with a little boat
moored beside its bank. The boat's the colour
of oranges in the south of Greece, all bloody
and ripe with sweetness, while the bank's the colour
of meadows in the north of France, deep green
with a heifer's downy mane, a country rose.
Love, I shall never take you to those places.
I've squandered all my gold upon the water,
which for you mirrors the eternal sun.
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.