Bornin Lublin, Poland in 1896, Yankev Glatshsyeyn (Jacob Glatstein), spent his entirewriting life in New York City (where he immigrated to in 1914), writing inYiddish. His poetic career was long for any poet (he published his first poemsin 1919, his last collection in 1966), but particularly for one writingexclusively in Yiddish in the 20^th century. While many ofGlatstein’s poems have been translated, it is his later work, from theHolocaust onward that receives the most attention. No doubt, these are some ofthe most moving poems ever written in Yiddish, and reflect a mature Glatsteinwho has blended the impulse and experimentation of Modernism, with the urgencyof a poetry of witness.

But while thesubject matter of his early, largely un-translated, poems may appear “lighter”(where we may read “slighter”) than his later work, these early poems are noless important. For it was in these poems that Glatstein boldly pushed Yiddishpoetry forward, out of the sweatshops and poetic conventions of the old world,and into conversation with a larger Modernist, poetic movement. Glastein’sfirst two collections, the self-titled Yaakov Glatshteyn and Fraye Verzen (Free Verse), where the following poems firstappeared, were the first two volumes of Yiddish poetry written entirely infree-verse. The poetry abandons the formal meters of previous schools ofYiddish poetry, finding rhythm from the natural cadence of human speech. What’smore, Glatstein’s early work demonstrates a fierce assertion of the individualself, perceiving and filtering the world around him. It is a tone whollyappropriate for one of the founders of In-Zikh (the Introspectivists), who intheir manifesto declared they were interested in poets that “created poetrydrawn from their own soul and from the world as reflected in it.” The resultof this introspection is a poetry that creates a “kaleidoscopic, contradictory,unclear or confused” view of the world.

TranslatingGlatstein is no easy feat, even for a native speaker. He has a habit ofinventing words, making nouns into verbs and adverbs (he describes a sky aslighteningy in one poem). He’ll borrow words from other languages, and hedeparts from YIVO standards (particularly in his preference for spelling outHebraic words phonetically). I’ve done my best at all times to honor bothaccuracy, and the poetic qualities in the work (even as these two goals areoften at odds). In the end, in deciding whether to go with a literaltranslation or an approximation, to maintain a play with sound or maintainoriginal meaning, to preserve his long, often (intentionally) unwieldy lines orto tighten them, I’ve come back to one guiding principal: these poems are goodYiddish poems. If they are not good English poems, I’ve failed as a translator. If I succeed in producing a good poem, regardless of any intentional orunintentional errors within the poem, I’ve succeeded in my most important task.

The City

1.

My pale head laid itself down onthe street,

the city’s telephone poles

fainted away before my eyes.

My bones were empty,

light as birds until I,

as if on a stranger’s feet,faltered.

Through my flimsy eyes

the city fainted.

The city’s clamor, a hardening

hung in air.

2.

Suddenly, a hand threw me

unconscious in the middle of themarket.

Above me people spread,

buzzing like bees.

My limbs were wires;

two great ears lay

on the ground

and a cry drilled through me:

Drum-drum, drum-drum, drum-drum.

3.

Once, the city spurred me towardit,

so invigorating

that it drew me in

like a spinning top.

I let myself be pulled until I wasovercome

by its impulse;

I was content,

yet around me my people spun,

pressed in pursuit until

the years, in manic motion,disappeared,

and I was on a corner only

wanting to catch my breath—

everything fainted before me.

The city’s drumming

dead in the air.