Looking at Diction in Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl”
In his poem “Howl,” Allen Ginsberg employs a stunning combination of abstract, poetic, and concrete diction in order to suffuse the poem with his unique voice as well as to critique the dominant American culture of his time — which he sees as a destructive force against the poetic minds of his friends and peers. From the title alone, readers get the sense that they are being spoken to directly, or that they are being personally addressed. The use of the word “howl,” specifically, also connotes a sense of longing and passion. One can howl a lament, a cry of pain, a scream of joy, even a burst of laughter. All of these connotations of the word “howl” can be seen throughout Ginsberg’s poem, but this post will only focus on the first part, in which Ginsberg nearly exhausts himself and readers through repetition. Specifically, the line, “who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow / toward lonesome farms in grandfather night” (Ginsberg 63) reveals the speaker’s desire for a new way of life despite the oppressive forces of the modern day. The choice to repeat “boxcars” three times with no commas separating them calls to mind the actual, physical image of three solitary boxcars, while it also represents their potential to move into a new space altogether. This could indicate the speaker’s assertion that his culture is more conducive to politics and business than to poetry and art, which causes great minds who hunger for adventure and connection to lead unfulfilling and perhaps even lonely lives.
The repetition of “boxcars” also captures the same energy as the repeated phrases throughout the rest of the poem and even in the footnote (“who,” “who,” “who,” “Moloch,” “Moloch,” “Moloch,” “I’m with you,” “I’m with you,” “I’m with you,” and “Holy!” “Holy!” “Holy!”). This energy reflects the restlessness and frustration of the speaker, though Ginsberg cleverly shows how this feeling can be transformed into something formal and productive. He does this in the first part through the repeated use of “who,” indicating that the modern day dilemma is not unique to him, but that it applies to everyone around him. The choice to use the word “racket” is also significant, as it can mean an unpleasant noise — perhaps the noise of consumerist America which the Beats saw as somewhat inescapable — but it can also mean an energetic flurry of movement. In the UK, the word “racket” can mean cocaine, and so Ginsberg’s choice to use that word specifically could reference the way many Beat writers desired a new or expanded type of consciousness, perhaps also reflective of the boxcars transporting these young people to places not yet explored.
Another significant passage reveals the brilliance of Ginsberg’s juxtapositions. Addressing the status of homosexuality in America, Ginsberg observes, “who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and / screamed with joy, / who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, / caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love” (64). Here, readers see how Ginsberg’s choice of words transform the concept of queer desire from something “deviant” into something holy, beautiful, and celebrated. The juxtaposition of words like “screamed with joy” or “fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists” forces us to focus on the apparent violence of such activities until we arrive at a more clear understanding of such desires — they are motivated by something spiritual. This type of spirituality and love is not yet recognized by American society, and is in fact criminalized (at the time Ginsberg wrote “Howl”). In other words, by setting these images beside and against one another, Ginsberg helps us see how queer desire is not some scary, deviant thing to be feared, but rather an avenue we can explore in order to arrive in a more loving world. This is solidified by the fact that Ginsberg has associated motorcyclists with saints and sailors with seraphim, and has used the words “caresses” and “love” to describe their actions.
Ginsberg, Allen. “Howl.” The Portable Beat Reader, edited by Ann Charters, Penguin Books, 1992, pp. 62–71.
