One morning, while scrolling through Facebook (as one does), 😂 I fell into a rabbit trap, an unexpected and exciting, a translation of Howl by the eminent poet Roberto Anonuevo. His version leaned literal, peppered with Filipino street slang. I found it intriguing but hard to grasp. It wasn’t a criticism, just my preference for a different flavor of poetry. Think of me as someone vibing on the B-side of the album.
Now, Howl is one of those towering literary pieces, an untouchable monolith of modern poetry. But if I’m being honest, I’ve only ever given it the lightest of nods in passing. Sure, I knew it was iconic, a Beat Generation anthem wrapped in feverish, stream-of-consciousness writing. But that’s as far as my interest went.
That changed after encountering Frank Cimatu’s winning poem at the Santelmo Araw ng Pagtula. His reimagining of Howl grabbed me by the collar. Ginsberg’s sprawling, frantic, frenetic energy felt fresh again, refracted and reanimated through a uniquely Filipino lens. That was it. I knew I had to dive in and wrestle with Ginsberg myself.
The Challenge of Translating Howl
First, let me say this: Howl is a beast. The language, steeped in mid-20th-century American culture, slang, and Ginsberg’s distinctly queer and countercultural sensibilities, feels passe in some places and outright baffling in others. There are references to drug culture, political movements, and cities that you might only vaguely know if you’ve watched too many documentaries about the ‘50s.
But despite all this, the rhythm and power of Ginsberg’s voice remain undeniable. It’s incantatory, almost hypnotic, like a long, breathless monologue from a friend who’s teetering on the edge of a revelation (or a breakdown). Translating that into Tagalog, or any language, is like trying to catch lightning in a bottle.
Rhythm and Power: The Heart of Howl
The beauty of Howl is in its rhythm. It’s not about perfect grammar or clarity; it’s about momentum. Breathless and without break. Each line spills into the next, building and building, like waves crashing against the shore. Even if you don’t fully grasp every reference, you feel the urgency behind the words. Ginsberg’s voice demands to be heard.
When translating, I realized I couldn’t just focus on the literal meaning. It’s not enough to turn “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness” into “Nakita ko ang pinakamahusay na mga isip ng aking henerasyon na sinira ng kabaliwan.” Sure, it’s accurate, but it doesn’t sing. You have to find a way to replicate that rolling, thunderous rhythm, something closer to “Nasilayan ko ang pinakamatatalas na isip ng aking henerasyon, nilamon ng kabaliwan,” It’s looser, less formal, but it moves. Anonuevo’s intro is even better in this part with “Nakita ko ang matitinik na utak ng aking henerasyon na winasak ng kabaliwan,”
Passe Sensibilities and Eternal Truths
Another hurdle is Ginsberg’s sensibilities, which can feel a little dated. There’s a lot of Beat-era machismo and self-mythologizing, which doesn’t always translate well to contemporary audiences. But if you go down deeper, strip away the Ginsberg posturing and male dogma, you’re left with something raw and universal, a howl of despair, yearning, and defiance against illusion.
Take the famous “Moloch” section, where Ginsberg rails against capitalism and societal conformity. Translating “Moloch whose mind is pure machinery!” into something like Anonuevo’s “Molok na ang isipan ay lantay na makinarya!” doesn’t just preserve the meaning, it lands differently, like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, Moloch isn’t just a metaphor for 1950s America; it becomes the monstrous, dehumanizing systems that we’re still fighting today.
Close Reading: The Joy of Wrestling with Ginsberg
What surprised me most about this exercise was how much fun it was to close-read Howl. Translating forces you to slow down, to grapple with every word, every phrase. You start to notice things you’d otherwise skim past, (which I have a habit of) the way Ginsberg uses repetition to build momentum, the way he layers images to create a sense of chaos and urgency.
For example, the line “angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night” might seem like a jumble of words at first glance. I really had a hard time with angel headed -these Beatnik flowers out and about in the machinery of the night yearning for the “starry dynamo”. Whew. But when you take it apart, piece by piece, you start to see the beauty in its construction. “Mga anghel na makata ng dilim, naglalagablab ang pagnanasa para sa ugnayang makalangit,. . . . . . sa mga talang sumisilakbo’t nagtatanglaw sa kaluluwa ng gabi.” Translating it is like solving a puzzle, playing with context, and when the pieces click, it’s incredibly satisfying.
Why Translate Howl?
So, why bother translating a poem like Howl? Partly, it’s a way of understanding it more deeply. But it’s also about making it your own. When I started, it was a simple linguistic exercise. It has rapidly blown into a cultural one. It’s about seeing how his words resonate in a different context, how they shift and transform when filtered through a new language, a new set of experiences.
Taking a page from Howl, the translation was an act of love. It’s my way of saying, “This moved me, and I want to share it with you.” And with Howl, there’s so much to share, the despair, the hope, the anger, the yearning. It’s all there, still howling after all these years.
