Ginsberg spent years, hunched over his typewriter, working at poetry, sending out poems with little validation for his talent from the gatekeepers of poetry, poetry magazines and literary journals. Then around 1956 City Lights published this little, very little book Howl. A year later Ginsberg got lucky when a plain-clothes SF cop came into the City Lights book Store and bought a copy of Howl, arresting the store manager and subsequently the publisher for dealing in obscene material. Bingo! With that Ginsberg was pushed into the limelight when the trial made the news. The copy I had said that almost a million copies were in print. I'm sure most readers were looking for what was so obscene - disappointed no doubt.

I've listened to it many times on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkNp5...

Howl, the first poem, has a wonderful rhythm and cadence to it. In the book Ginsberg said he got the title from Kerouac and some of the phrases.
I don't understand all of it, for instance, what does "negro streets" mean, if anything? But I don't have to understand everything to enjoy poetry. After all, it's poetry not an essay. Different parts of the poem were written at different times, like the footnotes and part 2, which didn't seem like they fit with part one.

There's a few other wonderful poems in the book. Like I said, it's a small book.

I just finished reading an essay about Ginsberg's "Howl," paused to reflect and decided to re-read the poem - as well as the others included in this little book. I like them. They're honest, saturated in Ginsberg's heart-wounds and the social concerns of the post-war generation (which, unbelievably, aren't now all that different from 1954). Reading "Howl" is a little bit like getting dragged into the underbelly of New York by one's peter pan collar and being forced to meet the "angelheaded" and the "hollow eyed" who are continually appearing and disappearing. There is much gnashing of teeth, "ashcan rantings," and fucking in the "machinery of night." The images are sad, lonely, and lovely. This time around, I felt the contrivance of it a little bit too strongly.

Out of the rest of the collected poems in this book (Pocket Poets Series Number Four), I also liked "A Supermarket in California." In this piece, Ginsberg imagines following Walt Whitman around a grocery market and I thought it was kind of funny: "What peaches and what penumbras! Whole Families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?"

I was also moved by "Song" which is about the "weight of love." I kept thinking of his mother, the schizophrenic, who held Ginsberg so close to her during his formative years. I kept thinking of the agony he must have felt visiting her in all those psychiatric hospitals. This one ends with, "I wanted, / I always
wanted, / to return / to the body / where I was born."

“the last gyzym of consciousness,”

“run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,”

“who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, »

“stand before you speechless and intelligent”

“blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love”

“Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!”

“Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius!”

“Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels!”

“I’m with you in Rockland
In my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night”

“for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.”

“I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?”

“the closet door opened, because I used it before, it kindly stayed open waiting for me”

“waiting in space where I placed them, they haven’t disappeared, time’s left its remnants and qualities for me to use—my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.”

“The grime was no man’s grime but death and human locomotives,”

“America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.”

Allen Ginsberg typifies the beat generation. Basically, a large amount of stoned/drunk pretentious hipsters who claimed they hated hipsters. And without much writing skill at that. The only exception to this is Jack Kerouac, who was actually a good writer, and did claim numerous times that he was not a beat. That being said, Howl is one of the longest, most terrible pieces of rubbish I've read in a long time. This deserves less than one star. I must admit, he does manage to incorporate a fair amount of energy into this, using the constant repetition of words, oftentimes striking ones such as "holy". (Gasps) This really seems to be more than a long kvetch more than anything. In my opinion, if you're going to kvetch, then at least incorporate some skill in it. In short, Allen, we know society is decaying, people are destroying their lives, and that you smoke marijuana every chance you get. It's really not helping your cause to write a terrible, tedious, poem about it. Also, who really cares? I pose this question towards you.

[The best minds of your generation most likely thought Howl was terrible.:]

I dont think I get it

Flowers angels bodies brothers bridges bombs desire dreams dirt drugs and Rockland, too

Allen Ginsberg's poem "Howl" was probably the dividing line between two Americas, two generations, two sexualities, two cultures. He was of course indicted and arrested and this poem barred from publication - of course again making it sell a lot more copies eventually - but in a way he was America's first great modern poet. The first line became a sort of countercultural national mantra:

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked"

"Howl" presents a view of contemporary society, placing a source of human woe within human consciousness and perception. In his poem, Ginsberg uses the word "Moloch," for the condition of the mind. The narrator declares" Mental Moloch!"... Moloch who name is the Mind!" According to Ginsberg, we are born in a state of "natural ecstasy" but Moloch "enter's the soul early". He pushes for an emergence from the belly of "Moloch," or the monster of corrupt institutions that devours us, "bashe[s]" and eats "up our brains and imaginations."

One of my favorite poems of all time and an absolute must read.

"America stop pushing I know what I'm doing. America the plum blossoms are falling. I haven't read the newspaper for months, everyday someone goes on trial for murder . . ." -- 'America,' on page 31

I'm guessing Ginsberg's Howl was shocking or celebrated / venerated back in early 1956 with its then-provocative small doses of raw language and implied sexual imagery, but 63 years later it now seems overwrought or sometimes pretentious. Occasionally there's a sharp or well-constructed verse, and some of the shorter poems in the latter half of this volume are okay. But the title piece - which ran about twelve pages - had me thinking 'enough already' two minutes after starting in on it.

So: a mi no me gusta poetry. I really really hate poems. I get it, on an analytical level: they're like ideas pared down into short little quick-fix portrayals and for all the amazing good they do with imagery and sharing the core of humanity, I really just don't like them. They're over too fast, they're too seemingly simple. And all that said, that is why I love "Howl" and Allen Ginsberg in general. "Howl" as a poem is long, longer than average, and yet still full of beautiful/ugly imagery - it's something that seems both tossed off in a single draft and also refined over and over again for purification. Beyond just "Howl" there is a lot in this tiny little tome that I relate to, especially Whitman in a grocery store. Ginsberg gets me, or I guess more accurately I get him. It's got to be something about VOICE, that makes his poetry speak to me and makes so much other poetry NOT speak to me.

"Howl" is great, amazingly and blazingly American original, and that is what I love about it. Doesn't hurt that They Might Be Giants recorded a song based on it. The rest of this little book is gravy, but it's damn good gravy, and it's one of the only purchases I afforded myself after college—eight bucks that could have been spent towards a meal but instead went towards a tiny little thing that always hides behind the rest of my bookshelf and yet punches way more punch than anything else I've purchased in these many years developing a collection of literature.

5 stars out of 5. One of the only poems I will ever recommend.

عُواءَ

أيّ أبي هولٍ من الإسمنت والألمنيوم شظّى جماجمهَم وافترس أدمغتهم ومخيّلاتهم؟

مولوخ؛ عزلةٌ! قذارةٌ! بشاعةٌ! براميلُ قمامة ودولاراتٌ بعيدةُ المنال! أطفالٌ يزعقون تحت السلالم!

صبية ينشجون في الجيوش! شيوخٌ ينتحبون في المنتزهات!

مولوخ! مولوخ! كابوس مولوخ! مولوخ سيّد البغضاء! مولوخ الفكري! مولوخ قاضي البشر الصارم!

مولوخ السجن العصيّ على الخيال! مولوخ الحبس الشاقّ بعلامة الموت ذي العظمتين المتقاطعتين وكونغرس المآسي! مولوخ الذي مبانيه يوم الدينونة! مولوخ الحجر الضخم للحرب! مولوخ الحكومات المصعوقة!

مولوخ الذي عقله آلية خالصة! مولوخ الذي دمُهُ مالٌ جارٍ! مولوخ الذي أصابعه عشرة جيوش! مولوخ الذي صدره دينامو آكلٌ لحومِ البشر! مولوخ الذي أذنُهُ قبرٌ يعلوه الدخان!

مولوخ الذي عيونه ألف نافذة عمياء! مولوخ الذي ناطحات سحابه تنتصبُ في الشوارع المديدة كعدد لانهائي من يهوه! مولوخ الذي مصانعه تحلم وتنعق في الضباب! مولوخ الذي مداخنه وهوائياته تتوّج المدن!

مولوخ الذي ولعه نفط وحجر بلا نهاية! مولوخ الذي روحه كهرباء ومصارف! مولوخ الذي فقره شبح العبقرية! مولوخ الذي قدره سحابة من الهيدروجين لا جنس لها! مولوخ الذي اسمه العقل!

مولوخ الذي فيه أقبع وحيداً! مولوخ الذي فيه أحلم بملائكة!

مصروع في مولوخ! مصّاص الذكور في مولوخ! محروم الحبّ ومخنّث في مولوخ!

مولوخ الذي باكراً اقتحم روحي! مولوخ الذي أنا فيه وعي بلا جسد! مولوخ الذي أرعبني وصدّني عن نشوتي الطبيعية! مولوخ الذي أهجره! أصحو في مولوخ! نور يشعّ من السماء!

مولوخ! مولوخ! شقق رّبوطات! ضواحي لامرئية! كنوز هياكل عظمية! رساميل عمياء! صناعات شيطانية! أمم وهمية! مستشفيات مجانين محصّنة! أعضاء ذكوريّة من الغرانيت! قنابل مَهُولة!

قصموا ظهورهم رافعين مولوخ إلى السماء! أرصفة، أشجار، راديوات، أطنان! رافعين المدينة إلى السماء التي تدوام على وجودها وتحيطنا من كل حدب وصوب!

رؤى! تكّهنات! هلوسات! معجزات! نشوات! غاصتْ في النهر الأميركي!

أحلام! عبادات! إشراقات! ديانات! حمولة المركب كلها من القذارات الحسّاسة!

اختراقات! على طول النهر! تشقلبات وحوادث صَلْب! غرقتْ في الطوفان!

سَكَراتٌ! أعيادُ غطاس! حالاتُ يأسٍ! صرخاتٌ حيوانية وإنتحارات لعشر من السنوات! عقولٌ! غراميات جديدة! جيلٌ مجنون! انهواءً على صخور الزمن!

قهقهة مقدّسة حقيقية في النهر! رأوها برمّتها! العيون الوحشية! الصيحات المباركة! قالوا الوداع! وثبوا من السقف! إلى العزلة! ملوّحين! حاملين زهوراً! هابطين إلى النهر! فالشارع!

__________________

“عواء”، مرثاة غنائية طويلة على النمط الويتماني، تفضح بلغة عارية فجّة علل وعاهات المجتمع الأميركي في مرحلة ما بعد الحرب العالمية الثانية. هي صرخة غضب من فئة من الشباب الأميركي اليائس، الثائر، ضد مجتمع مدمّر وانتهازي، مهداة إلى “كارل سولومون” الرجل الذي الت

تعرّض ديوان “عواء” للمصادرة عام 1957 على يد شرطة سان فرنسيسكو، بحجة أنه كتاب مخلّ بالآداب العامة، إلا أنه تمّ إعادة توزيعه بعد صدور حكم بنقض الدعوى القضائية المقامة في حق الناشر “لورانس فرلنغيتي”.

*

ترجمة: آمال نوار

I really wish I could give this piece of garbage less than zero stars. Unfortunately, 1 star will have to suffice. I don't really care what other poems are included in this book, the main offense is "Howl," a complete and utter waste of time. Supposedly one of the Beat Generation's greatest contribution to American literature, I believe the poem should have been renamed "Yawn." The poem itself is incomprehensible. I understand that the poem is MEANT to be incomprehensible, but behind this, there is no discernible meaning. I think I could type something that means something and is as equally incomprehensible if I was inebriated. Ginsberg = overrated.

El pequeño libro que incendió –y continúa incendiando– la poesía norteamericana. Howl es una explosión de belleza y realidad sin parangón, y los poemas que acompañan en esta edición a la opus magna de Ginsberg son muestras innegables de su virtuosismo formal y emocional.

Hay que tatuar Howl en cuantas paredes, lápidas y corazones sea necesario para cambiar a la humanidad.

/////

NOTAS DE USO PERSONAL

HOWL:

Una primera lectura rápida deja la impresión de un ritmo absolutamente increíble. Imágenes potentísimas, flashazos de trascendencia vital y podredumbre. Verdaderamente alucinante. No hay una sola linea que sobre, ni una, en las cuatro partes del poema: una primera en la que Ginsberg hace un recuento de las anécdotas definitorias de su generación; una segunda en la que achaca la locura y ruina de su generación a una especie de choque con la metrópolis implacable y el sistema económico y social establecido, todo en la forma de un anónimo y aterrador Moloch; una tercera parte en la que hace una especie de elegía a la locura de su amigo, el escritor dadaísta Carl Solomon; y finalmente una "foootnote" en la que crea una bellísima loa universal a lo sagrado, que según Ginsberg es absolutamente todo aquello que nos rodea (hasta Moloch). Si quisiera transcribir los versos sobresalientes de Howl tendría que reproducir el poema de forma íntegra, aunque si me obligan a elegir me quedo con estos momentos:

PARTE I

Obviamente la legendaria apertura: "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,/ dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, / angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night..."

Esta referencia maravillosa a Lowry: "who dissapeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago.

Esta belleza: "Who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts"

O esta: "Who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity"

O esta directamente apuntada a Solomon: "Who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomyl"

PARTE II

"Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!"

PARTE III

Esto que nunca dejará de conmoverme "Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland / Where you're madder than I am"

Y esto: "Where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale"

Y esto: "Where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won't let us sleep"

Y esto: "Imaginary walls collapse O skinny legions run outside O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free" carajo pinche belleza.

FOOTNOTE TO HOWL

La cuartilla más sagrada de la poesía moderna. Me arrodillo ante cada signo de admiración en ella. Ante cada Holy. Pero sobre todo ante esa frase de cierre que siempre estará tatuada en mi corazón: "Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!"


Otros poemas:

A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA

Ginsberg encuentra a su amado Whitman en un supermercado. Pasean por los pasillos y terminan como amigos sumidos en la soledad. Maravilla.


SUNFLOWER SUTRA

Ginsberg contempla un girasol junto a Kerouac y esto le motiva un discurso bellísimo sobre el cadáver de apariencias que cargamos y lo que en realidad somos. El girasol se cree locomotora y la locomotora, girasol.

El poema abre con un párrafo complejísimo sin pausas y termina con una frase igualmente compleja y hermosa. Puro virtuosismo.

Apertura: "I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry"

Cierre: "...spied on by our own eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riberbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision."


AMERICA

Poema de proporciones épicas. Ginsberg describe su América (USA) y le recrimina su cerrazón y su obstinado miedo a China y Rusia.