“Howl: II & III—From Rage to Resurrection and Resolution”
The end of the first section shifts from despair to compassion and hope (almost like a death and resurrection) as Ginsberg himself seems to find a new energy, a determination of using his voice, his poetry, his art as his eternal transformation, “good enough to eat for a thousand years” (20). He also declares that he will continue to use raw, gut-wrenching truth as his vehicle for change, “…absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies” (20). The shift begins with “ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe…” and contains multi-layers (19). This is only the third time Ginsberg uses the pronoun “I.” At the beginning of “Howl,” Ginsberg introduces the work with “I saw the best minds of my generation…” and in doing so casts the narrator as the survivor or spectator (9). The next time he uses “I” is on page 17 in a general sense “…to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision.” The shift and culmination that begins with “while you are not safe I am not safe” seems to cast the “I” as an integrated, compassionate whole being with transcendence co-occurring with the determined decision of his right to resurrect and unify his spirit and his art internally and externally—along with his colleagues.
Section II begins as the container for the reclamation and integration of his voice, his art, his identity. With a confidence-filled rage, the poet loudly and profoundly names the evil that is relentlessly pounding the marginalized parts of society, individuality, and anyone who does not conform to the norms imposed by the ideology of capitalism. The use of exclamation points, the repetition of “Moloch”—a god who demands the sacrifice of children—accentuates the poet’s rage at the world’s inequities and injustices. Ginsberg manages to show the reader the damage done by this world to him as a person,
“Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!” (22)
In the next line, his takes back the right to live his life his own way, “Moloch whom I abandon!” Ginsberg’s choice of adjectives further demonstrates how total his rejection is of a world that strangles and kills: invisible, skeleton, blind, demonic, granite, and monstrous. Juxtaposed with the image of this “unchangeable” world where Americans deify money, is Ginsberg’s knowledge that some kind of heaven “exists and is everywhere about us" (22).This contributes to the feeling that this poet who can see the luminous and mystical will not only survive, but also conquer the demons within and without. At this point, Ginsberg reflects this belief both personally and universally. With each repetition of “Moloch,” granite walls are not falling; they are being jackhammered away—bit by angry bit.
The last fourteen lines of the poem specifically refer to the beliefs of his generation as negated and thrown “down the American river” by a judgmental public (22). One would think that we were back to the hopelessness found in Section 1 on page 19 with images like, “Breakthroughs! / over the river! / … gone down the flood!” and “They bade farewell! / They jumped off the roof!” However, the poet’s tone manages to maintain the rage and convey a grit and strength that their voices (possibly in honor of those who died), imaginations, “visions…miracles, ecstasies,” “illuminations…the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit” will find a way to march out of that river, survive and thrive. Those telltale exclamation points, the unchanging flow of rage, and the transition of form—without the repetition of “Moloch”—keep the end of the piece from descending into suicidal “Despairs!” Ginsberg captures for the second time both a personal and universal commitment for those who think outside the box. As he screams at the loss of lives and spirits, his feet are squarely and firmly finding a place on the ground, with no apologies for who he is, for who they are.
In Part III, the tone changes from rage to redemption. “I am with you in Rockland” almost takes on the sense of a lull-a-bye. We have been on a hellacious roller coaster ride with Ginsberg that burst into a crescendo throughout Part II. Now we are coming down into the calm cool waters of kinship and compassion and acceptance. The “I” is predominant here, but “with you” comes after it each time—taking us out of the alienation, loneliness, and loss of the first two sections. It almost has a Christ-like quality in sound. He still references the horrible treatment at the mental institution, “where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul / is innocent and immortal it should never die / ungodly in an armed madhouse,” but there is a quiet acceptance and belief in the spirit as well as the union of friendship—in not being alone (25). He still references the political, “…the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep” and both together “O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here” (26). He still has his sense of humor, “O victory forget your underwear we’re free” (26). However, the pervasive air of acceptance, hope, and redemption tempers each utterance with the strength of the preceding line, “I’m with you in Rockland.” The final dream image of Carl “…dripping from a sea- /journey on the highway across America in tears / to the door of my cottage in the Western night” solidifies and seals the redemption and resurrection from the chaos and despair. The walls have fallen. The spirit lives on. The journey can begin. And it did.
(If I had to describe the three parts of this poem in just three words, it would be I Death, II Crucifixion, and III Resurrection.)
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