This is not the first attempt of our "young" poets to issue a collection of their work. Their first publication Mist did not create a stir in the Jewish ghetto. The poems contained in that publication were really somewhat misty, and therefore, remained unnoticed. The "young" ascribed the failure of that publication to the fact that the poems had no originality, neither of thought nor of form. They, therefore, tried very hard to present both in their present effort. But the trouble is that they tried too hard and overshot the mark. Many of their poems are really original. Up to now such poems have never appeared anywhere, and we hope will never appear again. Their absence from the present publication would increase the prestige of the young poets.

Had the eight young poets who published this book, issued only eight copies 2--a copy for each one of them--then these lines would never have been written. The trouble is that a few hundred copies were printed of this book of poems and these copies will be distributed among the Jewish workers. We, therefore, consider it our duty to review this collection of poems.

We have always been very severe critics of obscene literature. When we see a play that cannot be called "good literature," we become blood enemies of the theater manager, the playwrite, and the actors because we hold them responsible for the presentation of an obscene play. Our youth has always been the severest critic of obscenity. The question then naturally arises: how did our youth happen to create the obscenities that are found in the issue of Young Chicago?

The representative of obscenity in Young Chicago is a certain Mr. Mates L., a man with a degenerate and sick imagination, who should have spent the last few years in a psychopathic hospital. His few poems are so repulsive that they poison the entire book, even the beautiful poems that are there.

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We are sorry that we cannot quote many passages from those "poems" because they are unprintable; they are the product of a sick spirit. We shall, however, be satisfied with quoting only one passage, the mildest of the "poems";

"The chained bull

"Kicks his feet, bellows.

"He calls the cow in the field.

"I bellow and call in pain

"My woman--at night."

The "poet" compares himself to the bull and forgets that he is doing the bull a terrible injustice. However, let us not speak of the injustices that this "poet" commits. We regret only that our young poets thought it appropriate to include this repulsive trash in their collection of poems. This is a black mark against them, which they will not be able to wipe out easily. Their excuse that they are "young" will not do. Many of them are far from young. Gorelik's poems were printed ten years ago in the best magazines and newspapers of the country.

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The annoyance is still greater when one considers that in Young Chicago there can be found many beautiful, and genuine poems. Whenever the poets wrote with the intention of creating something great and original, they were unsuccessful. Their songs about Chicago are artificial and trite. Nothing original can be found in the poems of Ben Sholem, Gorelik, Mathias Deutch, and Isaac Ronch. They all sing of locomotives, bells, bridges, steam, and smoke. All the poems have the same form and the same harsh words. Some poems are a mere juxtaposition of words; they do not say anything.

Ben Sholem sings of Chicago;

"Chicago!

"A row of railroad stations;

"Stone and steel stations

"Surround thee."

The poet forgets that Chicago is not a row of railroad stations and that the 5railroad stations do not surround Chicago but are found in the very heart of the city.

The poets are not particularly at ease when they sing about "mother earth" and the prairies, which they have never seen in their lives. When Isaac Ronch becomes artificially inspired about "mother earth," he sings:

"Naked Mother Earth draws me

"To her green potato fields,

"To her brown ears of corn--

"To her green open prairies.

"I feel very very close

"To the calf and the colt

"Roaming in the fields."

The poet is drawn to the potato field and to the prairie, although they are hardly alike! We cannot complain about his feeling "very close to the calf 6and colt roaming in the field". Very likely, he knows what he is talking about.

What is more, we cannot understand why the poet should lament his uncommitted sins:

"Sins! My sins! Uncommitted sins!

"Pursue me--everywhere!

"Like fear--the blind!

"Like death--the aged, the sick!"

You read the poem and it makes no impression upon you. It has never made any impression upon the poet. His conscience never troubled him for the sins he did not commit and he never felt any pain even when he cried, somewhat mechanically, in his poem.

Whenever the poets did not seek to create forcibly something original 7(which is above their powers), and were satisfied to write ordinary poems, they succeeded in creating beautiful and genuine poetry.

Bessie Hershfield [Pomerantz] does not attempt, as others do, to fly above the clouds, and is, therefore, sure of not falling into the mud. She sings very beautifully:

"Evening comes upon me, treading softly....

"Methinks you sit facing me

"Reading a poem to me.

"You read a line, stop,

"And throw a glance at me.

"And I--? I hear not

"A single word you read.

"For my lips murmur softly--

"I love you."

When Bessie Hershfield [Pomerantz] sings of love, you feel that it is not an 8artificial song. She sings so naively and delightfully:

"How happy I shall be,

"When you will come to me!

"If you will only touch me,

"Yours shall I always be!

"With joy unknown before

"I shall enter your embrace,

"And with my last breath--

"Receive your kiss!"

Eselin also has a few sincere poems which are worthy of note. His poem "Honor" is really beautiful.

"Quietly grandma stood last night before the God of

Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob too.

"With her thin hands over her face she pleaded

her request--with tears.

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"Tears--like falling snow upon the earth

that spreads itself under the blue night

and becomes a broad white blanket.

"Tears--that kiss away the misty eyes of

a passer-by.

"Thus cried my grandma--last night."

Baruch Goldhart sings only about "dark-eyed" beauties for whom he feels an extraordinary love. His poem "The Drunkard" seems to be the best of his poems.

Gorelik feels at home, sometimes too much "at home", when he sings about "Man and Woman". His poem "Man and Woman" is really beautiful but his poem "The Blossoming of a New Life" is a little too daring.

The few drawings in Young Chicago are of the same character as Mates L.'s scribblings. Portnoy's drawings of nude women have no life in them. The first part of the body resembles a woman, but the second part is more 10reminiscent of a bear.

The book itself is very attractive; it is printed on good paper and has a beautiful cover. Had the poems undergone the strict censorship of a critical editor, then this collection of poems would have increased the prestige of this group of young writers. Maybe this will be a lesson to them in the future.