When I.L. Peretz published his first Yiddish poem in 1888, almost no one could understand it -- not because it was dense or difficult, but because no poem like it had ever before been written in mama loshn. For nearly a millennium, Yiddish was the vernacular of Ashkenazi Jews, serving as the medium of everyday expression and early traditional education. But until the Jewish Enlightenment in the early 1800s, Yiddish was not a language of scholarship. When Peretz sculpted his modern masterpiece, “Monish,” literary Yiddish was only decades old.

Even though Peretz’s work forged a new path in Yiddish letters, poets who followed him still had to wrestle the spoken language into a modern written style. Out of their efforts to create new works in the comparatively rough-hewn tongue, poetry emerged as a cornerstone of modern Yiddish literature. In celebration of National Poetry Month, we highlight a Yiddish poetry anthology that provides the best evidence of this achievement.

Morris Bassin, born one year after Peretz’s poetic debut and a poet in his own right, is best known as editor of the anthology אַמעריקאַנער ייִדישע פּאָעזיע [American Yiddish Poetry]. In 1940, Bassin was determined to collect the most important poems written in Yiddish by American poets. His resulting anthology canonized the 31 most accomplished American Yiddish poets of the 20th century. The huge book, over 600 pages long, opens to an illustrated title page by artist Judah Tofel. Each of the 31 sections is introduced by a portrait of the poet, and each poet is well represented by a large selection.

Close to the center of the book is a poem by H. Leivick, the pseudonym of Leivick Halpern, who settled in America in 1912 after escaping from Siberian exile. His ייִדישע פּאָעטן [“Yiddish Poets”], is a striking description of the artists’ plight:

When I think of us — Yiddish poets, A sorrow grabs me — sharp, acute; I want to scream to myself, to pray — And just then the words grow mute. So outlandish is the look of our poems — Like stalks the locusts have possessed; One comfort: get disgusted with yourself, Slink on God’s earth, an alien guest! The blood of our word on cold fingers, From fingers — to cement, hard and cold; Oh, ashamed, ridiculous singers, Squeezed between four disgraced walls! And if one like us comes, a brother From a cellar, a sweatshop, he’s cursed — He finds us in his own mute tongue And avoids our solemn verse. And we, like children, like knights in love, Like Quixote, doing things unheard, In loneliness as ever we tremble Over every letter and word. Sometimes, like frazzled cats, dragging Their kittens around, distraught, We drag our poems between our teeth By the neck through the streets of New York. When I think of us — Yiddish poets, A sorrow grabs me — sharp, acute; I want to scream to myself, to pray — And just then the words grow mute. —Translated by Benjamin and Barbara Harshav

אַז איך טראַכט וועגן אונדז — ייִדישע פּאָעטן, אַזאַ צער כאַפּט מיר אַ מאָל אַרום; עס ווילט זיך שרײַען צו זיך אַליין, בעטן, — און דעמאָלט גראָד ווערן ווערטער שטום. אַזוי משונהדיק זעען אויס אונדזערע לידער, — ווי זאַנגען וואָס אַ היישעריק צעפֿרעסט; אַ טרייסט: — צו ווערן זיך אַליין דערווידער, צו שלײַכן זיך אויף גאָטס ערד, ווי פֿרעמדע געסט! דער בלוט פֿון אונדזער וואָרט אויף קאַלטע פֿינגער, פֿון פֿינגער — אויף נאָך קעלטערן צעמענט; אָ, פֿאַרשעמטע, לעכערלעכע זינגער, פֿאַררוקטע אין פֿאַרשעמטערע פֿיר ווענט! און אַז עס קומט אַן אייגענער, אַ נאָענטער פֿון אַ קעלער, צי פֿון אַ שאַפּ אַרויס, — זײַן שטומע צונג נאָר אין אונדז דערקאָנט ער, און אונדזער פֿײַערלעכקײט מײַדט ער אויס. און מיר, ווי קינדישע, פֿאַרליבטע ריטער, ווי דאָן קיכאָט, מיט איבערכאַפּטער מאָס, מיר בלײַבן ציטערן מיט אונדזער ציטער, אין עלנט, איבער יעדן וואָרט און אות. און אַ מאָל, ווי קעץ מיט אויפֿגערייצטע גלידער שלעפּן זייערע קעצלעך פֿאַרווירט פֿון זאָרג, — אַזוי שלעפּן מיר פֿאַרן האַלדז אונדזערע לידער צווישן די ציין, איבער גאַסן פֿון ניו–יאָרק. אַז איך טראַכט וועגן אונדז — ייִדישע פּאָעטן, אַזאַ צער כאַפּט מיר אַ מאָל אַרום; עס ווילט זיך שרײַען צו זיך אַליין, בעטן, — און דעמאָלט גראָד ווערן ווערטער שטום.

For Leivick, writing in Yiddish is a curse that he must accept. Every poet in Bassin’s anthology chose to embark on the same quixotic journey, and their struggles with the language echo their own trials as immigrants, workers, and survivors. Their poetic efforts to stretch the language beyond its humble beginnings turned Yiddish into the rich and beautiful literature we know today.