Literary Context: Ginsberg's "Howl" and The Beat Generation

Allen Ginsberg, who wrote "Howl", was a writer from the Beat Generation of the 1950's. It was the end of WWII and, therefore, a time of unrest; people were anxious, uncertain, on-guard, and-I'd venture to say-depressed. The Beat Poets represented change and defiance of conventional writing, thus, dawning the era of political and cultural anarchy. And this is so clearly demonstrated in "Howl", as Ginsberg is not shy with his words: ". . . who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts, who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy. . . (Howl p1358)." This was something society has never seen before in poetry or any literary work; this kind of language was considered obscene and vulgar by many, at the time.

But Ginsberg was just speaking-quite bluntly, however-the truth. He wrote of what he saw, day in and day out, and left nothing to the imagination. During these post-war times, experimenting with drugs was extremely popular; many Beat poets, including Ginsberg, dabbled with hallucinogens in order to achieve a higher state of consciousness. He would also write about the constant drug use, drinking and debauchery he was exposed to and a part of. For example, "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 starry dynamo in the machinery of night. . . (Howl, p1356). Much of  this poem is wrought with pathetic and depressive scenes, and drugs may have been a contributing factor to the, somewhat, hard-to-comprehend rambling, however, I believe there was a method to Ginsberg's madness.

In class we were talking about the lengthiness of the lines in "Howl"-in the backdrop on Allen Ginsberg, before the poem, he explains himself a bit:

          "My feeling is for a big long clanky statement, one that accommodates, not the way you would say it, a thought, but the way you would think it-i.e., we think rapidly, in visual images as well as words, and if each successive thought were transcribed in its confusion . . . you get a slightly different prosody than if you were talking slowly." (p1355)

Plainly speaking, instead of writing sentences the way one would speak it, he writes his thoughts, the way one thinks them. It makes sense; nobody thinks in perfect sentences, it's all garbled, leaping from one thought to the next. If you put yourself in the shoes of someone living right after the end of a horrible war, seeing all the devastation, mental and physical anguish, suffering, it becomes a little easier to understand where he's coming from. I can relate to the feeling of not wanting to hold back, shut up, or cover up the truth, even if it's ugly...to just throw-up all that you see and hear and feel, with no regard, no pretty pink flowers to make it sweeter to swallow. That is how I see Ginsberg and other Beat poets. They were transcending from an era of "Leave it to Beavers", pretending all is perfect and right with the world, meanwhile, mommy sucks from the whiskey bottle and daddy's not around. After the reality of war and the horrifying atrocities it brings with it, I would not be able to pretend any longer. Nor could Ginsberg:

          ". . . with mother finally*******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 AM and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination. . ."
(p1360)"

If I had to guess, I would say that Ginsberg was talking about the moment he heard of his mother's death. The first line, "with mother finally" and you fill in the blanks, and then slamming the last telephone in reply, speaks the most to me. He uses the word, last, five times, and mental furniture makes me think of the mental hospital she was in. A phone call and door closing at 4 am? All signs point to his mother passing away, but that's just my opinion.

I do love the colorfulness of this poem. Although it may be a tad dreary, I think it is far more alive than many others I've read. It speaks truthfully and honestly, ugliness and all.

Work cited:
www.poets.org. "A Brief Guide to the Beat Poets" 2004

The Norton Anthology of American Literature, "Howl" 2013, pp1354-60