Puckerbrush Review
vol. xxiv, i (summer/fall 2005)
The Complete Yiddish Poems of Menke Katz
Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav
Reviewed by Constance Hunting
Menke Katz, a Lithuanian Jew who had immigrated with his family to America in
1920, arriving at Ellis Island and settling in New York, at nineteen became
a celebrity not for his English poetry but for his Yiddish. Yiddish poetry was
a new concept in New York, and its practitioners immediately took up political
positions, left and right, buzzing and quarreling like bees. Menke, with other
young Yiddish poets, had little interest in world politics. Of course he knew
what was happening, knew about the strong desire for "proletarian"
poetry and recoil from anything that could be called "decadent." (a
not dissimilar situation exists today, without, however, the knowledgeable background.)
How can one label Menke Katz' poetry, then? We may assume that the translations are more than adequate; they seem absolutely natural. What comes through most bravely is the tremendous, unfaltering energy of the poems, always pushing towards the ultimate meaning: life.
The dust where the little blind worm crawls,
Can also bless the seed with all that is good . . . .
When the little worm shouts with all its silence,
I see God himself in all his grandeur crawl –
Near the worm – shuffle after shuffle, side by side,
In order to tenderly repair the thinnest tear of flesh.
– from "Sacred Dust"
The poetry is life-affirming even when Katz is dealing with war, the destruction
of villages, of people, of ideas. The pace slackens only occasionally, as though
Katz is catching his breath after the headlong year-long rush and push. And
this is true whether he is writing in Yiddish or in English. For he published
nine books in each language, uniquely synthesizing shtetl life and New York
City kabbalist mysticism. Harry Smith, publisher of Menke, and Dovid
Katz, the poet's son, have contributed a Preface and a leisurely Introduction
to this triumphant book. And by the way, set aside cavils about "God himself
in all his grandeur" – it's God, all right, himself or not, in "all
his grandeur." Listen. Live.