American-Jewish literature, in English, began most inauspiciously with the verse of Emma Lazarus, whose intentions were noble, but who rarely rose even to the level of the English Romantic poet, Mrs. Felicia He-mans (whose much-mourned early loss, popularity, and general badness might inspire us to term her the Sylvia Plath of her age) . Unfortunately, Emma Lazarus was an involuntary prophet, for though it causes me real grief to say this, the achievement of American-Jewish poets down to the present moment remains a modest and mixed one. There are no Bellows or Malamuds among them, though there are a few signs that this melancholy estimate some day may need to be revised upward.
I wish to be precise about this; there are a number of good poets, in several generations, with a particularly thick concentration of those now in their late thirties or early forties. As a broad grouping they compare favorably enough with most of what is now going. But no poet with the high individuality of the major sequence of modern American poets—E. A. Robinson, Robert Frost, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, Ezra Pound, Marianne Moore, T. S. Eliot, John Crowe Ransom, Conrad Aiken, E. E. Cummings, Hart Crane, Theodore Roethke, Elizabeth Bishop—seems likely to emerge from among them, any more than a single American-Jewish poet of undoubted major status has established himself in a century now more than two-thirds gone. I would find it irrational to suppose that this is accidental (though I would be pleased to believe that) and I turn to the process of critical surmise so as to attempt to account for so melancholy a phenomenon.
A comparison with Yiddish poetry, so much of the best of which has been written in America, seems to me an inevitable starting point. Moshe Leib Halpern and Mani Leib at the least—probably also H. Leivick and Jacob Glatstein—are more impressive poets, in my experience as a reader, than any American-Jewish poet who has written in English. This is not to sentimentalize the legitimate if strictly limited achievement of even the best Yiddish poets, but only to recognize the self-truncation, the uneasiness, the inhibiting and poetically destructive excessive self-consciousness of American-Jewish poetry. Admirers of Charles Reznikoff, Louis Zukofsky, Delmore Schwartz, Howard Nemerov, and the many Jewish poets of the generation after would dissent from my general judgment, but a dispassionate view of the matter will sustain my sorrowful conclusion. There have been, and go on being, very good minor poets aplenty, but the more deeply one reads in them the more they do tend to merge into one another. Those who stand out, like the mock-bardic Allen Ginsberg, are distinctive primarily by being egregious, like Norman Mailer in his prose and his public manifestations.
In his new book on American-Jewish literature, Allen Guttmann, sensitively and accurately perplexed, asks: “But where are the poets?” and comes up with Karl Shapiro and two poets of my own generation, Irving Feldman and John Hollander, all of whom he discusses quite usefully.1 I will consider these, and add a number besides, but am compelled still to stay a while longer with the problem: Why haven’t the poets been better?
The most distinguished Jewish poet writing in English in this century was clearly the Londoner Isaac Rosenberg, killed in World War I at the age of twenty-seven. Rosenberg’s strength is not in the famous “Trench Poems,” but in a handful of quasi-biblical fragments, such as this:
A worm fed on the heart of Corinth,
Babylon and Rome:
Not Paris raped tall Helen,
But this incestuous worm,
Who lured her vivid beauty
To his amorphous sleep.
England! famous as Helen
Is thy betrothal sung
To him the shadowless,
More amorous than Solomon.
It isn’t often one can call a prophetic fragment Blake-like, and be observing with accuracy, yet here Rosenberg deserves the comparison. The poem turns on the fine play between “amorphous” and “amorous,” the gently sinister introduction of the shadowless Satan, and the evocation of sexual excess in a continuum from Corinth to Solomon. Taken together with the subtle indirection of the prophetic warning to turn now, before the betrothal is consummated, these moral insights fuse into a powerful Hebraic pattern. Where, in his non-biblical poems, Rosenberg rarely could arrive at mature terms with his English literary influences, his biblical fragments do show the achievement of a poetry firmly Jewish.
The closest American equivalent to Rosenberg was the even more tragic Samuel Greenberg, brought to the United States from Vienna in 1900, at the age of seven, to endure the Lower East Side and to die of tuberculosis at twenty-three. Greenberg is remembered today only because Hart Crane read his poems in manuscript, and reworked some of them in the lyric “Emblems of Conduct” and in the “Voyages.” Educated only through the seventh grade, Greenberg found his precursor by reading Emerson, whose essays and poems are echoed all through Greenberg’s work. Amazingly, Greenberg was a true prophet of the direction the best American-Jewish writing would take, for it seems clear today that Bellow, Malamud, and the better poets maturing now, constitute a variety of American Romanticism, an amalgamation of Emerson’s “optative mood” with the moral pressures of Jewish tradition. Sometimes in Greenberg the amalgamation results, not surprisingly, in moving parallels to Emily Dickinson, as in “Regret at Parting”:
“Our God!” in prayer is said;
“Our child!” announced so, too—
And its senses that grasp your heart
That travels through speechless awe.
Beware of the intellectual, changing mood
That trembles a universe afar:
Deep in thy shadowed soul
Immortal creatings are!
. . . . . . .
O friend, a pardon in a reviewed past,
That inner selfish brand
The Almighty has deemed to brush our path;
Soon we part—I grasp thy hand!
The formal inadequacy is clear enough, but so is the subtle probing of a profound and desperate religious temperament. When, in a double handful of Emersonian lyrics, Greenberg overcomes his formal limitations, something close to greatness in the visionary mode is given to us. Here is “The Glass Bubbles,” Greenberg’s version of the “transparent eyeball” of Emerson’s Nature:
The motion of gathering loops of water
Must either burst or remain in a moment.
The violet colors through the glass
Throw up little swellings that appear
And spatter as soon as another strikes
And is born; so pure are they of colored
Hues, that we feel the absent strength
Of its power. When they begin they gather
Like sand on the beach: each bubble
Contains a complete eye of water.
The immense sorrow of the transitoriness, the ebb answering the flow, of Emersonian vision and inspiration, has never been set down so gently or so persuasively. Elsewhere, anticipating Crane, Greenberg found inevitable expression for the fate of Emerson’s Orphic Bard when fallen upon evil days:
I live in an age where the age lives alone,
And lonesome doth it rage
Where the Bard dare not come.
But what is Jewish about the poetry of the Emersonian Greenberg? The God he addresses, who is not a Person in whom a believer has faith, but the God of the Torah, beyond personality, in Whose Way Greenberg must try to walk. In his many plangent, unfinished, frequently incoherent hymns to this God, Greenberg sought to win acceptance of poverty, illness, early death, but achieved only the brave pathos of a tempered anguish.
Greenberg died just after the fashions of literary modernism had begun to inundate America and Britain, and he was strangely fortunate in his self-education, for the writers who moved him—Keats, Shelley, Thoreau, Emerson above all—were none of them inimical to the relative naturalism and humanism of Jewish tradition. American-Jewish poets from the 20’s down to the present day have found themselves, more often than not, in the dilemma of Hart Crane: how can one accommodate one’s vision to the metric and rhetoric of Eliot, Pound, Williams, and their followers? Poets as various as Charles Reznikoff and Delmore Schwartz, despite all their gifts, failed finally as poets for lacking a language appropriate to their desired stance. Reznikoff, whose selected volume, By The Waters of Manhattan, is nevertheless an impressive testament, should have been the American-Jewish poet in whom younger writers could find a precursor of real strength. A few writers of talent have found aid in Reznikoff, but prolonged reading in him depresses me with the sense of unnecessary loss. Why attempt to translate Yehudah Halevi into the idiom of Pound and William Carlos Williams? Is the form of this in any way appropriate to its burden?
My heart in the East
and I at the farthest West:
how can I taste what I eat or find it sweet
is in the cords of Edom and I
bound by the Arab?
Beside the dust of Zion
all the good of Spain is light;
and a light thing to leave it.
In one poem, Reznikoff sadly and accurately remarks that he has “married the speech of strangers,” and he tends to be most moving when he studies the nostalgias:
My grandfathers were living streams
in the channel of a broad river;
but I am a stream that must find its way
among blocking rock
and through sands and sand.
The principal name among American-Jewish poets in the generation after Reznikoff is clearly that of Delmore Schwartz, where the inherited idiom is Eliot’s, rather than Pound’s or Williams’s. But, like so many poets of his generation (Stanley Kunitz, Howard Nemerov, Ben Belitt), Schwartz curiously evaded whatever Jewish concerns existed in his consciousness. The exception in Schwartz is the patriarchal figure of Abraham, who enters the early poem, “For the One Who Would Not Take His Life in His Hands,” is oddly invoked in tandem with Orpheus in another poem, and then makes one of a trilogy of three late poems, together with “Sarah” and “Jacob.” Schwartz’s “Abraham” is impressive work, except that the irrelevance of the precursor who found Schwartz makes again, as in the Jewish poems of Reznikoff and Louis Zukofsky, for a disturbing incongruity between style and imaginative attitude. With Isaac restored to him, Abraham sums up his life in the accents of the late T. S. Eliot:
And I am not gratified
Nor astonished. It has never been otherwise:
Exiled, wandering, dumbfounded by riches,
Estranged among strangers, dismayed by the
An alien to myself until at last the caste of
the last alienation
The angel of death comes to make the alienated
and indestructible one a part of his famous
Clearly there is a peculiar problem of poetic influence at work among American-Jewish poets. Strong poets tend to achieve an individualized voice by first all-but-merging with a precursor and then by pulling away from him, usually by way of a complex process of fault-finding and actual misinterpretation of the precursor. All post-Enlightenment poetry in English tends to be a displaced Protestantism anyway, so that the faith in a Person easily enough is displaced into an initial devotion to the god-like precursor poet. This, to understate it, is hardly a very Jewish process, and yet something like it seems necessary if poets are to continue to be incarnated. However far from Jewish tradition they may be, something recalcitrant in the spirit of young Jewish poets prevents them from so initially wholehearted a surrender to a Gentile precursor, and indeed makes them nervous about the process itself. Displaced Judaism tends to become one or another kind of a moralism, but not the pragmatic religion-of-poetry that young poets, for a time, must accept.
A glance at two poetical Shapiros—Karl and the less-well-known but more interesting Harvey—can begin to test my speculations, before I move on to my own generation of poets—Irving Feldman, John Hollander, Richard Howard, Allen Grossman, Edward Field, Robert Mezey, and a few others, including the celebrated Ginsberg.
Mr. Guttmann sensibly points out that Karl Shapiro, who has been so fierce against modernist literary criticism, nevertheless “offered a metaphoric defense of peoplehood.” The defense in fact, as John Hollander noted in a 1958 review of Shapiro’s Poems of a Jew, just barely dodged “a stereotyped Gentile intellectual’s view of Jew as victor-victim.” Right now, Shapiro’s defense seems to me to have been merely absurd. In justice to Shapiro, I quote from his Preface:
. . . the modern Jew, insofar as he is a Jew, remains intransigent and thankless, man in all his raw potentiality. . . . He is man left over, after everything that can happen has happened.
Nothing is more self-deceptive for any Jewish writer than the notion that he can define the Jew. Whatever else is possible for him, it is hardly given to him that he may forge the uncreated conscience of his people, the people of the Book and of the halakhah. When Saul Bellow, with his customary and invariable wisdom, wished to create a hero with “raw potentiality” or “man left over,” he gave us Henderson, a pure Emersonian and Gentile American. Whatever else it is that a Jew may be, his tradition cannot allow him to be Natural Man alone.
The best of Karl Shapiro’s overtly Jewish poems is probably “The Synagogue,” yet even here the reader confronts a curious mixture of sentimentalism, misinformation about Judaism, and the by now too familiar incongruity of an overtly Jewish stance being rendered in an alien idiom, here that of W. H. Auden and Louis MacNeice. Even more bothersome is the technique of defining what is Jewish by seeing it only as the negation of the Catholic:
Our wine is wine, our bread is harvest bread
That feeds the body and is not the body.
Our blessing is to wine but not the blood
Nor to sangreal the sacred dish. We bless
The whiteness of the dish and bless the water
And are not anthropaphagous to him.
Harvey Shapiro’s poetry, so much of which turns upon Jewish themes, lacks only a language adequate to its genuine and accurate apprehensions of Jewish dilemmas. Its style goes back to Williams, by way of the school of Reznikoff, Zukofsky, George Oppen, and the spareness of this style is rarely adequate to Harvey Shapiro’s own intensities. I read this poet’s major collections (Battle Report: Selected Poems and This World) with continuous sympathy, but longing also to hear him speak out in a more expressionistic, highly colored, biblicizing idiom than he can bear to allow himself. Take as a characteristic poem by him, “The Way,” from This World:
Why are you crying in Israel,
Brother, I ask as I switch over
To the emergency oxygen.
Do we have to dig up all
The Freudian plumbing
To reconstruct our lives?
If I had clean air like you
I think I could breathe.
As it is my mouthpiece keeps
Clogging and my eyes blur.
I can barely make it
Between the desks.
And you, walking
Between orange trees
Among the companions,
And still so far from the way.
With its fine economy, this parable conveys rather more than the climactic Israeli scenes of Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. The “Way” is halakhah or right conduct, based on a Mishnaic word meaning “to walk.” As a poet, knowing that “my mouthpiece keeps/Clogging,” Shapiro laments the universality of the departure from halakhah, as far away in Israel as in America. Spare and moving as the poem is, the deep reader in me wants more, and laments the attachment of Shapiro to so minimal a modernist tradition, so sadly lacking in the rhetorical resources that his insights desperately require.
Richard Howard, taking a retrospective view of his own book Alone With America (“essays on the art of poetry in the United States since 1950”) notes that fifteen out of the forty-one poets surveyed are Jews, and concludes that they have “a certain ease within the alienation of poetry” and that they move “upon the Word naturally, by tradition, as it were.” This is handsomely said, and completely untrue, as I have been trying to demonstrate. The Jewish poets Howard studies fall into the two patterns described above. Either they evade or ignore their Jewishness (for many, of course, it hardly exists) or they confront the fearful problem of expressing their cultural diversity in the essentially hostile idiom bequeathed them by the various modernist or post-modernist masters. Howard himself, who has emerged in the dramatic monologues of Untitled Subjects and Findings as the best modern continuator of Browning, has only one poem on a Jewish theme, the remarkable “A Montefiore Memorandum,” an urbanely bitter meditation on Wagner’s hatred for Meyerbeer.
As I contemplate the poets of my own generation, I find it difficult to avoid the conclusion that the Jews among them work on under peculiarly internalized disadvantages. The clearest achievements of the poetic generation already seem to center elsewhere, in A. R. Ammons, John Ashbery, W. S. Merwin, Mark Strand, James Wright, among others. When Sidney Hook lucidly protested Sartre’s notion that Jewish authenticity was dependent upon the self-acceptance of ancestral identity, he movingly spoke of giving all individuals “the right to freely determine themselves as Jews or Gentiles, as citizens of one country or another, as cultural heirs of Socrates or Aquinas. . . .” But poets are not citizens or cultural heirs in any philosophic sense; they do not choose their tradition but must be chosen by it. Most directly, they require to be found by the inevitable, the liberating precursor, if ever they are to be capable of finding themselves at all.
Of the poets of his generation, Irving Feldman has been the most directly Jewish in his thematic concerns. His first book, Works and Days, all but drowns in the turbulence of these concerns, while his second, The Pripet Marshes, does drown, engulfed by his temerity in taking the Holocaust as subject. Elie Wiesel, Paul Celan, Nelly Sachs can touch the horror with authority, but British and American writers need to avoid it, as we have no warrant for imagination in that most terrible of areas. Feldman becomes both a serious and a vitally Jewish poet only in his recent volume, Magic Papers, which Mr. Guttmann finds “almost entirely without reference to Jewishness.” The long title-poem, as well as “The Word” and “The Father,” are extraordinary efforts to recapture a lost relation to living tradition. Necessarily, Feldman quests for an appropriate voice (“My voice/ is thick, is mud,/my depth of anguish is/my depth of reservation./I detest the wryness of my voice,/its ulteriority, its suffering/—what is not lived only/can suffer so.”) The quest is answered in “Psalm,” Feldman’s best poem, where a massive and disciplined anguish mounts from its initial recognition: “There is no singing without God” to a final stanza in which the poet does stand at the turning:
But if I enter, vanished bones
of the broken temple, lost people,
and go in the sanctum of the scattered
house, saying words like these,
forgive—my profaneness is
insufferable to me—and bless, make fertile
my words, give them a radiant burden!
Do not deny your blessing, speak to us.
Feldman is evidently in the midst of the difficult process of becoming a genuinely devotional poet, within the immense grandeur of his tradition, now rendered all but inaccessible by the circumstances of history. John Hollander, a skeptical polymath, has no way back to Judaism, but is ruggedly and constantly aware of the burdens of his almost-lost tradition. His autobiographical long poem of 1965, Visions from the Ramble, attains one of its visionary climaxes on Tisha B’av, mingling the Lamentation of Jeremiah with the prophecy of ruin for New York as the Newer Jerusalem:
But here in this room, when the last
Touches of red in the sky have sunk, these few
Toward the end away from the windows, some
with bleachy white
Handkerchiefs comically knotted at each corner,
In place of black skullcaps, read what was
wailed at a wall
In the most ruined of cities. Only the City
It is in The Night Mirror, his recent volume, that Hollander emerges as a fully integrated poet, who can deal with the very diverse elements of his own consciousness, including his Jewish heritage. “At The New Year” is a powerful secularization of that celebration, and an extraordinary poem addressed to Borges on the Golem vividly recreates the world of “my ancestor, the Rabbi Loew of Prague.” The almost-Yiddish lyric, “The Long and the Short of It,” ends in the mode of Ecclesiastes: “They who look out of/The windows are darkened,” and the same plangency is conveyed by the immensely somber closing lyric, “As the Sparks Fly Upward.” The operative influence upon so many of the poems in The Night Mirror is Yiddish poetry, particularly the work of M. L. Halpern and of Mani Leib. Included in the volume are versions of two of Halpern’s most mordant pieces, “The Will” and “The Bird” and Mani Leib’s poignant “I Am.” Readers consulting A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry, edited by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg, will discover that Hollander’s translations are one of the staples of the volume. Abraham Reisen, Leib, Halpern, Itzik Feffer, Jacob Sternberg, A. Glanz-Leyeles, Eliezer Steinberg, Eliezer Greenberg, Aaron Zeitlin—Hollander renders all of them with remarkable diversity, vividness, and particularity. I am reminded of the vigor and sense of release that Rossetti attained in his translations of Italian poetry. It is no insult to Rossetti to see that his version of Dante’s strong sestina, “To the Dim Light and the Hard Circle of Shade,” is his strongest poem, and similarly I do not dispraise Hollander in judging his version of Halpern’s “The Bird” to be his best work so far. I give only the first two stanzas of this superb phantasmagoria:
Well, this bird comes, and under his wing is
And he asks why I keep my door on the latch;
So I tell him that right outside the gate
Many robbers watch and wait
To get at the hidden bit of cheese,
Under my ass, behind my knees.
Then through the keyhole and the crack in
The bird bawls out he’s my brother Sam,
And tells me I’ll never begin to believe
How sorely he was made to grieve
On shipboard, where he had to ride
Out on deck, he says, from the other side.
In the grotesque power of Halpern’s mode, as in the very different poignance of Mani Leib, Hollander has begun to be discovered by precursors wholly available to his imaginative needs. For Halpern and Leib, in the full context of American literature, are minor but authentic late Romantics, desperately defrauded seers of a transcendental vision. Hollander’s own subsequent development is likely to come somewhere in the broad currents of American Romantic tradition.
Though no other poets of their generation seem to have progressed as far as Feldman and Hollander in solving the Jewish-American apparent dichotomy, several deserve consideration as working at the problem. Edward Field’s astonishing “Mark Twain and Sholem Aleichem,” a brilliant invention, takes the two writers to Coney Island, where “pretty soon they were both floundering in the sea.” Field’s closing vision is precariously balanced between affection and despair:
They had both spent their lives trying to make
the world a better place
And both had gently faced their failure.
If humor and love had failed, what next?
They were both drowning and, enjoying it now,
Two old men of the two worlds, the old and the
Splashing about in the sea like crazy monks.
So memorable an extinction of two literary fathers can be balanced against Allen Ginsberg’s many lame invocations of his own literary fathers as the ever-living. The chanter of Howl, Kaddish, and many lesser litanies is as much beyond the reach of criticism as Norman Mailer; both have been raised to that bad eminence where every fresh failure is certain of acclaim as an event, something that has happened and so is news, like floods, fires, and other stimulating disasters. The genuine painfulness of reading through Kaddish is not an imaginative suffering for the reader, but is precisely akin to the agony we sustain when we are compelled to watch the hysteria of strangers. Still, time will judge against us on Ginsberg as, I believe, on Mailer; for here and now, it is sufficient firmly to note Ginsberg’s irrelevance to the achievement I seek to sketch.
It seems clear to me that American-Jewish poetry as it moves into maturity will become more and more overtly a blend of a devotional strain and a late Romantic visionary intensity. These are representative excerpts, all of considerable distinction:
You will awaken with the dignity
Of beauty still upon you, and go forth
Like one who has not long since worshipped.
It will be like some mysterious Sabbath
When the Book was taken from the Ark,
The crown, the breastplate with its wreath of
And all the royalty that hides the Law
Opened and laid aside, and you knew the words,
As a man knows a woman who is raven haired
You will be as infinite as your desire
Knowing the Law is young and beautiful
When you awake one morning in your cold hotel
After a night of vision.
—Allen Grossman, “The Law”
Some other side of memory
And nothing still to think;
The soul consumed a heaviness
Of thirst it couldn’t drink. . . .
—Alvin Feinman, “Covenant”
How rarely your mercy visits me,
My king, my father;
And so, most of my days, I am your wandering
Who has cast his lot like a prophet
In the desert of his days.
And your deliverance that comes to me then,
My father, my king,
Is like a well that the wanderer came on at last,
When he had almost prayed for death from
And the heat that shrivels the body.
—Robert Mezey, “On the Equator”
After he had maimed the dragon deep
and throned us in new limbs of everlasting
opening to fable the mortal stars
we wept praises and harped the flood of his
Our tears might have filled an ocean
our blood a sea.
We followed or wantoned before him,
He was our serpent, flexible and brazen,
on his broad back we crossed the seas
or stood precipitously between worlds.
Come now, with a staunch heart, a steady love,
redeem his river-bones from Egypt,
fetch home his visions, and out of his grave
make a vineyard to plant the voice of the dove.
—Geoffrey Hartman, “Mariner’s Song”
For all their differences, particularly in style, these passages move toward a common thematic center, which they share with Feldman’s “Psalm.” There is no recovery of covenant, of the Law, without confronting again, in all deep tribulation, the God of the Fathers, Who is beyond image as He is beyond personality, and Who can be met only by somehow again walking His Way. For all our mutual deep skepticisms, the increasing enterprise of American-Jewish poetry is what it must be: persistence in seeking to recover what once our ancestors had. The motto for that poetry’s future can be taken from Rabbi Tarphon: “You are not required to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it.”
|Alvin Feinman:||Preambles and Other Poems, Oxford University Press, 1964.|
|Irving Feldman:||Works and Days, Atlantic Monthly Press, 1961
The Pripet Marshes, Vikingr 1965
Magic Papers and Other Poems, Harper & Row, 1970
|Edward Field:||Stand Up, Friend, With Me, Grove Press, 1963|
|Allen Ginsberg:||Kaddish and Other Poems, City Lights Books, 1961|
|Jacob Glatstein:||In A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry, ed. by Irving Howe and Eliezer Greenberg, Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1969|
|Samuel Greenberg:||Poems, Henry Holt, 1947|
|Allen Grossman:||A Harlot’s Hire, Walker-de Berry (Cambridge, Mass.), 1961|
|Moshe Leib Halpern:||In Howe & Greenberg, eds., A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry|
|Geoffrey Hartman:||“Mariner’s Song,” published in Yale Review, Autumn 1971|
|John Hollander:||Visions from the Ramble, Atheneum, 1965
The Night Mirror, Atheneum, 1971
|Richard Howard:||Untitled Subjects, Atheneum, 1969
Findings, Atheneum, 1971
|Mani Leib:||In Howe & Greenberg, eds., A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry|
|H. Leivick:||In Howe & Greenberg, eds., A Treasury of Yiddish Poetry|
|Robert Mezey:||The Door Standing Open: New and Selected Poems 1954-69, Houghton-Mifflin, 1970|
|Charles Reznikoff:||By the Waters of Manhattan: Selected Verse, New Directions, 1962|
|Isaac Rosenberg:||The Collected Poems, Schocken Books, 1949|
|Delmore Schwartz:||Selected Poems: Summer Knowledge, New Directions, 1967|
|Harvey Shapiro:||Battle Report: Selected Poems, Wesleyan University Press, 1966
This World: Poems, Wesleyan University Press, 1971
|Karl Shapiro:||Poems 1940-1953, Random House, 1953|
1 The Jewish Writer in America, Oxford University Press, 256 pp., $7.95.