Moyshe-Leyb Halpern

1886–1932

The American Yiddish poet and satirist Moyshe-Leyb Halpern was born in Zlotshev in Austro-Hungarian, Galicia (now Zolochiv, Ukraine). He moved to Vienna in his youth and while living there began to write modernist poetry in German. Halpern immigrated in 1908 to New York City, where he remained for most of his life, living in great poverty. In New York, he was associated with the Yiddish poetic movement Di Yunge (The Young Ones), although his anarchic line and often brutal tone differed sharply from the aestheticism and harmonious poetics favored by others in the group. In Halpern’s early poetry, a biting portrait of the pathologies of immigrant city life and deep alienation from American capitalism were conjoined with equally firm rejection of any nostalgic move to idealize East European Jewish life. Indeed, his depictions of the shtetl were often brutally hostile. But far from being merely critical, much less socially critical, Halpern’s poetry is full of boisterousness, self-mockery, a devil-may-care attitude, and arresting sound and rhythm. After 1915, personal woes, a sense of cultural loss, and horror at the suffering of East European Jews during and after World War I deepened his poetry. Strange meditations on eros and death and tenderness toward his wife and son run through his poetry as well. Halpern published much of his significant verse in satirical magazines, as well as small poetry journals associated with Di Yunge. He later gathered much of this poetry into two carefully composed volumes. Late in life, Halpern would be affiliated for a time with Frayhayt (Freedom), the chief Yiddish-language communist journal, although his poetry could hardly square with their aesthetic-political demands. Halpern continued to write until his death, in New York City.

Entries in the Posen Library by This Creator

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Ghingeli

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Oh, Ghingeli, my bleeding heart, Who is this guy who dreams in snow And drags his feet like a pair of logs In the middle of the street at night? It is the rascal Moyshe-Leyb, Who will freeze to…

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In the Golden Land

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Would you, mama, believe if I told That everything here is changed into gold, That gold is made from iron and blood, Day and night, from iron and blood? —My son, from a mother you cannot hide— A…

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Memento Mori

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And if Moyshe-Leyb, the poet, tells That he saw Death on the high waves— Just as he sees himself in a mirror, And it was in the morning, around ten— Will they believe Moyshe-Leyb? And if Moyshe…

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My Restlessness Is of a Wolf

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My restlessness is of a wolf, and of a bear my rest, Riot shouts in me, and boredom listens. I am not what I want, I am not what I think, I am the magician and I’m the magic-trick. I am an ancient…

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He Who Calls Himself Leader

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No one can order his face in advance And you shouldn’t throw a stone at a dog Showing its howling muzzle to the night sky. But when I think about it, Losing myself in sadness, in this night-cafe Fogg…

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In Central Park

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Who is to blame that I don’t see your tree, Garden in snow, my garden in snow. Who is to blame that I don’t see your tree— When a woman goes out for a stroll in your snow, Her bosom rising and…

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Salute

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There are things in this country too— And if they find no streetlamp pole, There will be a tree—and that means clearly That a Negro over twenty years old May hate all things which spire To hold a man…

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The Street Drummer

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Joyous, free, the bird will sing, Trembles on his throne the king, Trembling is not good for me— Like a bird I sing so free, As winds prance, In a trance, Wild and blind, I roam and dance, One street…

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In a Foreign World

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And life on deck grows quiet. Silence spreads And people, wrapped in coats, look out to sea. And, here and there, a gleam, a glittering. The ship moves quietly. Some fall asleep. The night is…

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Yitskhok Leybush Peretz

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And you’re dead. And you’ve not yet been covered by the ground; Far through a thousand streets like horses galloping round, Young and old newsboys spread, rushing about their business, Hawking papers…