Iconoclast
vol. 90 (2005)
Menke: The Complete Yiddish Poems of Menke Katz
Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav
Introduction by Dovid Katz
Preface by Harry Smith
Reviewed by Charles P. Ries
Cannons hurled the dawn up to the sky.
Mountains rolled down to valleys.
On the earth, displaced roofs point:
Here was a street.
– from "Yeiske," Burning Village–Book
1
Small pressers of a certain age may remember Menke Katz as the editor of the acclaimed and long-running quarterly, "Bitterroot." Or as a poet able to place his work in large and prestigious publications (Atlantic, New York Times, Commentary, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, etc.). But unless you knew him personally, you may have been unaware that as a young man in Depression Era New York City, he was a giant in the Yiddish poetry world (drawing over five hundred people to a reading is big-then, and more so, now). Or that as a boy in Lithuania, his family suffered the depredations of war as first the Kaiser's divisions swooped down, then the troops of the Tsar, and finally, Lenin's red army – with nothing good to be said for any of them. Any relatives who didn't perish then or make it to America were finished off two decades later by the Nazis and their willing local helpers. The destruction of Jewish life and culture was perhaps more complete in Lithuania than in any other country (Menke would write, "Is even God a doctor great enough to heal the sick world?").
The scholarly (at 122 pages, a book unto itself) introduction by his son, Dovid, paints the early biography of Menke's life in short, quick strokes (Menke's poetry itself is the best source on that subject). What the introduction really focuses on is the feisty milieu of Yiddish poetry in the 1930s. Politics (usually of a left wing variety) suffused every aspect of life, even the cultural and artistic. New York City, at that time, was able to support several Yiddish newspapers and countless magazines, all with personalities of their own and ideological turf to be defended (often at the cost of love and friendship). Against that volatile backdrop, Menke managed to increase the uproar with his insistence on the freedom of his muse not to provide formulaic, politically correct and coded work. (Of course, these days, it's nearly impossible to imagine poetry creating such heated discussion, passionate argument – or being remotely relevant to the political landscape, despite a succession of "education" presidents and "literacy" first ladies. How shocked we are when poets and writers of other countries are jailed for their activism. Since the 1960s, the only poets jailed in the U.S. were those not claiming their copious conference, workshop, prize, and appearance fees to the IRS. They're a little like the old-timey baseball players who made more money signing autographs than they did actually playing. Celebrity culture indeed.)
Now we get to the poetry itself, hundreds of pages of lyrical, mystical attainments – part song, part prayer, part story. It is almost as if nature–nay, even inanimate objects–suffer along with humanity, lost to the senseless and unquenchable appetite of evil. A word fecund and abundant enough for all is subject to the whims of power and greed. Yet, though Menke is as good as anyone in describing despair, loss, hunger, madness, and worry, there is always confidence that good will survive, wisdom must overcome destruction.
All of Menke's nine books in Yiddish appear here (including some uncollected
poems and assorted material). His first was Three Sisters. As a youthful
effort, it is raw, energetic, and ambitious, showing a lot of potential (occasionally,
I was reminded of his contemporary, Lorca: the blood, the symbolism – death
and dreams around every corner. And though Jewish, Menke understood well the
power, ritual, and metaphors of other religious, particularly Catholicism –
and when it fits his artistic purposes, he incorporated those concepts into
his work).
By the end of his second work, Dawning Man, Menke is beginning to hit
his stride. And in the three Burning Village books that follow, he becomes
a Tolstoy, vividly chronicling the misfortunes of war, the retreat of all humanity
to hellish survival. What keeps the barely living going? Dreams, yearnings,
love, imagination, the recollections of the world before it went mad.
By the time he reaches Grandmother Mona Takes the Floor, he has transcended mortality. His is the voice of the brook, the spell of the wind, the message of the birds, and the judgment of history. Grandmother Mona does speak–and she was based on Menke's real grandmother. But the poetic imagination takes her beyond, so that she becomes like a mother goddess addressing the world.
It is hard to believe Menke Katz went on after his initial nine books in Yiddish to produce an additional nine in English (to his dismay, Yiddish began an incredibly rapid decline in use. Israel itself discouraged the language in order to better unite the country under modern Hebrew). Even for a life of more than eighty years, it's an impressive body of work. The books in either language alone would be a bigger and better legacy than many more famous poets have.
Menke Katz's Yiddish poetry has been rescued for the ages. One can only hope
the ages hear his cries for justice and mercy, join his songs and stories of
remembering, joy, laughter, and hope.