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ASSIGNMENT COVER SHEET
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`After All, What Else Is There to Say?' Ed Sanders and the Beat
Aesthetic.
Herd, David
Review of Contemporary Fiction. Spring99, Vol. 19 Issue 1,
p122.
16p.
Poetry Review
INFLUENCE (Literary, artistic, etc.) -- History -- 20th century
SANDERS, Ed
V.F.W. Crawling Contest, The (Poem)
BEAT poetry
GINSBERG, Allen, 1926-1997
The article examines some poetic works by poet Ed Sanders to
know whether his literary aesthetics were influenced by beat
poet
Allen Ginsberg. It addresses Sander's poetic manifesto,
measures Sander's poetic development, and provides details on
Sanders' long narrative poem "The V.F.W. Crawling Contest."
1290
5588
0276-0045
1571188
MasterFILE Premier
`AFTER ALL, WHAT ELSE IS THERE TO SAY?' ED
SANDERS AND THE BEAT
AESTHETIC
Among the more telling stories in the first volume of Ed
Sanders's Tales of Beatnik Glory is "A Book of
Verse." The story opens with a sharp image of provincial life in
the tranquilized fifties. It is 1957 and a
"carload" of "graduating seniors"--among them the unnamed

young man from whose perspective events
are narrated--drive from their small town on the Missouri-
Kansas border for a fraternity weekend at the
state university. Dressed for the occasion, "he," the central
character, "wore his forty-five dollar R.H.
Macy flannel suit with the pink and blue flecks he and his
mother had bought for the homecoming dance
in 1956." Unextravagant, off-the-peg, conventionally
distinctive, the suit bespeaks a conformist
sensibility. As does the weekend that consisted of an "afternoon
beer and barbecue party" and "was
otherwise uneventful except that he threw up into the waterfall
of a local fancy restaurant when drunk,"
an act of socially acceptable rebellion that "guaranteed him an
invitation to pledge the fraternity" (Tales
280-84).
While at the University, the young man buys a copy of "Howl,"
distantly aware that the title poem has
caused controversy. Its impact is explosive.
Howl ripped into his mind like the tornado that had uprooted the
cherry tree in his backyard when he
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was a child. He began to cry.... He walked down the stairs in the
middle of the night to wake his parents
and read it to them. His mother threatened to call the state

police .... Over and over he "howled" the
poem, till much of it was held in his mind and he'd close his
eyes and grab the book, almost tearing it,
and shriek passages, stamping the ground. "God! God!" he
yelled, "God!"...
Gone were the days of shoe polish, clean shirts, and paste-on
smiles. He began to spend almost all of
his time writing poetry.... For days he worked on a howling
masterpiece. He typed various versions and
gradually the poem evolved into the rageful shape he desired.
(Tales 280-81, 284)
The purpose of "A Book of Verse" is to measure the impact of
"Howl" on a young mind--Sanders's--
conditioned by a small American town in the 1950s. The story
thus serves two functions. It testifies to
the poem's importance in twentieth-century poetic history. It
also poses a problem. Sanders, so the story
goes, became a poet because he read Ginsberg's poem. The
problem arising is thus one of influence.
How does the poet react to such a transformative early reading
experience? Or more specifically, how
does the poet whose way of seeing has been fundamentally
revised by "Howl" proceed to write without
reproducing Ginsberg's point of view?
The question can be more instructively, if more obliquely
formulated, if one considers Sanders's poetic
manifesto Investigative Poetry, published in 1976. The heart of
the manifesto is Sanders's exhortation to
fellow poets "to describe every aspect...of the historical
present...for this is the era of the description of
the All" (1). In so exhorting, Sanders has recourse to a familiar
rhetoric: the rhetoric of inclusion.
"Inclusion," it would seem fair to say, had been the watchword

of every significantly innovative body of
American poetry produced since the 1940s, so much so that by
1976, the notion of "inclusion" had
solidified into the official idiom of experimental postmodern
poetry. How else could Sanders write of "the
era of the description of the All"? And not least among the
significantly innovative American poets who
had emphasized the value of poetic inclusion was Sanders's
dedicatee, Allen Ginsberg, "who sets for all
time the example that rebel poets not allow themselves to be
driven into isolation." Ginsberg, indeed,
had been feeling out the implications of this rhetoric of
inclusion since early 1949. Witness "After All,
What Else Is There to Say?"
When I sit before a paper
writing my mind turns
in a kind of feminine
madness of chatter;
but to think to see, outside,
in a tenement the walls
of the universe itself
I wait: wait till the sky
appears as it is,
wait for a moment when
the poem itself
is my way of speaking out, not
declaiming of celebrating, yet,
but telling the truth. (29)
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Clearly Ginsberg had not "yet" managed (as John Ashbery puts
it) to "put it all down" (Three Poems 3).
The intention, however, is there. Ginsberg is prepared to "wait
till the sky / appears as it is." After all,
what else is worth telling if not the truth? And what is truth,
after all, if not all there is to say?
In 1949, one imagines, Ginsberg's title would have read like a
challenge: challenging the poet to a
sublime response. Had Sanders reread Ginsberg's poem in 1976
as he prepared Investigative Poetry,
its title could, or should, have read much more like a problem.
Thus, in the first place, it is possible that
Ginsberg has already said all that Sanders himself might want to
say. What can Sanders add after
Ginsberg, by whom he is so impressed, has commented on the
historical present of which they are both
a part? This is a serious but not a devastating difficulty. Sanders
can evade the obsolescence the
problem implies if he can eke out areas of his own experience
for which Ginsberg, for all his
capaciousness, has not accounted. A second, much more serious
possibility is that the very rhetoric of
"All" has itself, by 1976, some twenty-seven years after
Ginsberg began to feel for its contours, become
hollow. Arguably, that is, the poet who speaks of the "era of the
description of the All" is no longer, in
any real sense, issuing a sublime challenge but is settling
instead into a kind of shorthand (a catchall if
you will) that serves no longer to sharpen but actually to dull
the attention. Glossed in this way,
Ginsberg's question, echoing ironically down the years, comes
to seem ominous indeed: "After All, What

Else Is There to Say?"
The purpose of this essay is to answer that question. I want to
consider what else Sanders has found to
say, consider how he has advanced an aesthetic (the Beat
aesthetic) that he finds so deeply
compelling. To do this, I must start with Ginsberg and in
particular with an appreciation of how he came
to write with the impact he did. The nature of Ginsberg's poetic
achievement, I will suggest, predicts the
nature of Sanders's.
For all its characteristic spontaneity, "Howl," as James Breslin
has observed, was a long time in the
making (77-109). Ginsberg himself claimed he first had an
inkling that he might write a poem in that
style when, while reading Blake, he had a hallucinatory vision
in which the poet spoke to him (Breslin
79-83). More prosaically, one can perhaps identify three phases
in Ginsberg's early poetry, each
constituting a stage in development of the aesthetic that finally
found utterance in "Howl." These phases
can be characterized, following John Muckle, in terms of the act
of naming.
Consider the closing lines of "In Society," the first poem in
Ginsberg's Collected Poems. The narrator is
at a cocktail party (in the society of the "In Society"):
She glared at me and
said immediately: "I don't like you,"
turned her head away, and refused
to be introduced. I said, "What!"
in outrage. "Why you shit-faced fool!"
This got everybody's attention.
"Why you narcissistic bitch! How

can you decide when you don't even
know me," I continued in a violent
and messianic voice, inspired at
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last, dominating the whole room. (3)
Early as it is, and for all its crudeness, this passage contains
many of the elements from which Ginsberg
would come to fuse his Beat aesthetic. Its angle of vision is
telling. Whereas Prufrock was happy to
observe the comings and goings of society women from outside
and so to accept both his own
exclusion and the principle of exclusion, Ginsberg's narrator
blunders in uninvited, determined to
become involved. Indeed, one can already see his rhetoric
beginning to congeal around the principle of
exclusion: the woman's refusal to be "introduced" stimulating
the narrator's "outrage." And as he
negotiates the ins and outs of polite society, one can hear
Ginsberg feeling toward a name for his
attitude to that society and toward a theme through which to
examine it. Thus, in the woman's refusal to
speak to the narrator, one glimpses Ginsberg's reciprocal refusal
of the values she articulates, his
subsequent social status as a refusenik, and his Baudelairean
fascination with the garbage (the refuse)
of American society. In "In Society," then, Ginsberg can be
observed struggling to name elements that

will become crucial to his mature style.(n1)
The second phase of Ginsberg's early career finds the poet
moving beyond the nomination of a general
category and beginning to identify those elements in American
culture that are refused: that which
America has made abject. The shift is entirely self-conscious.
"Stanzas: Written at Night in Radio City"
urges,
No more of this too pretty talk,
Dead glimpses of apocalypse:
The child pissing off the rock,
Or woman withered in the lips,
Contemplate the unseen Cock
That crows all beasts to ecstasy.... (28)
The word apocalypse is carefully chosen. Ginsberg is declaring
an intention to devastate American
society by revealing that which it would choose to conceal:
"child pissing," "woman withered," "unseen
Cock." Advances in Ginsberg's aesthetic are thus increasingly
marked by a naming of things
conventionally unspeakable. "Paterson," written in 1949, is
exemplary. Refusing "rooms papered with
visions of money," Ginsberg wonders what will happen
If I put new heels on my shoes, bathe my body reeking of
masturbation and sweat, layer upon layer of
excrement dried in employment bureaus, magazine hallways,
statistical cubicles, factory stairways ....
Instead of settling for the "dumbbells of the ego with money and
power," Ginsberg would rather jar my
body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun;
rather crawl on my naked belly over the
tincans of Cincinnati; rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a

Golgotha in the Rockies .... (40)
"Paterson" is the first poem in which Ginsberg begins to find a
truly distinctive measure for
contemporary America. In certain respects, of course, that
measure is familiar. The long, inclusive lines
are Whitman's, and the journey west is the stuff of national
mythology. But without attempting to obscure
either inheritance, Ginsberg twists form and content into
contemporary shape. Instead of loafing along
Whitman lines, Ginsberg crawls, and where the journey west
signaled progress and the new Jerusalem,
now it implies Golgotha. With "a mouthful of shit, and the hair
raising on my scalp," "Paterson" finds a
new set of terms through which to interpret the American way, a
set of terms novel and powerful enough
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to require a name.
The third phase of Ginsberg's early career is a search for that
name, and it is with "Sakyamuni Coming
out from the Mountain," written in 1952, that he begins to
define his vision:
He drags his bare feet
out of a cave
under a tree,

eyebrows
grown long with weeping
and hooknosed woe,
in ragged soft robes
wearing a fine beard,
unhappy hands
clasped to his naked breast--
humility is beatness
humility is beatness--(90)
Bearded, barefoot, clothed only in "ragged soft robes," Ginsberg
cuts a recognizable figure here. He has
begun to find a form of self-definition, through his researches
into Buddhism, with which he can feel
comfortable. And with self-definition comes aesthetic
definition, the mantra--"humility is beatness"--
formulating an attitude that had been evolving in his poetry for
some years, but with a simplicity that has
hitherto exceeded his grasp. It is with "Malest Cornifici Tuo
Catullo," however, one of the last poems
written before "Howl," that Ginsberg finally achieved an
aesthetic formulation strong enough to underpin
an influential work of art:
Ah don't think I'm sickening.
You're angry at me. For all my lovers?
It's hard to eat shit, without having visions;
when they have eyes for me it's like Heaven. (123)
"Howl" is an exploration of the contention that "It's hard to eat
shit, without having visions." Following a
memorably simple structure, the poem first presents the
refuseniks, then that which they refuse, then
envisions a new world, the keystone of which, as the refrain
"I'm with you in Rockland" makes clear, is
solidarity. Crucially, the poem is not a straightforward
celebration of Beat values but rather a measure of
the cost of refusing. The Beats refuse, are refused, and so are

left among the garbage. Better, the poem
proposes, to be among the garbage hallucinating angels than
sacrificing the next generation to Moloch.
Better still, however, to be in Rockland, "where we hug and kiss
the United States" (133). This sense of
the cost of Beatnik choice is crucial to Ginsberg. To be Beat is
not simply to drop out (as Timothy
Leary's later, weaker definition suggested). Rather, it is to make
a sacrifice, Ginsberg himself having
seen the best minds of his generation sacrifice themselves to a
refusal of the values incorporated by
Moloch. "Howl" names the cost of this sacrifice. It names, that
is, the cost of living in contemporary
America. That poem proved a defining moment in American
literary history, and that it redefined
otherwise nonliterary lives in the way Sanders's story shows,
testifies to a simplicity of vision born of
Ginsberg's ongoing effort to name all that he saw.
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In "A Book of Verse" Sanders described how "Howl" "ripped
into his mind like the tornado that had
uprooted the cherry tree in his backyard when he was a child"
(Tales 281). The question, arising from
this order of influence was, how does the poet for whom
Ginsberg proves such a transformative early
reading experience proceed to write without simply reproducing
Ginsberg's point of view? John Muckle

has indicated one way out of the impasse this question would
seem to imply. In his essay "The Names:
Allen Ginsberg's Writings," Muckle notes that Gertrude Stein
"speaks of poetry as naming, prose as
telling how the names became names. From an original unity of
these functions in epic, poetry and
narrative have developed a cleavage in which one names and the
other tells" (14). For Muckle,
therefore, Ginsberg is an important poet because, like Whitman
before him, he shows an awareness of
"America's need for new nomenclatures" (14). Following this
imaginative application of Stein's
formulation to the context of Beat writing, one can usefully
conceive of Sanders as a poet caught
between functions. If the force, and so the impact, of Ginsberg's
writing lies very largely in its willingness
to dare a new nomenclature, then it should not be surprising to
find Sanders, on occasion, also engaged
in the act of naming, in the Adamic act of carrying the Beat
idiom into new areas of experience. Yet
precisely because that idiom precedes him, Sanders is aware
that the need to name is less pressing
than it was. Accordingly, and prudently one might think,
Sanders chooses to contribute to the Beat
aesthetic in large part by "telling how the names became the
names." This might explain the narrative
drift in Sanders's poetic manifesto: "Investigative Poetry: that
poetry should again assume responsibility
for the description of history" (Investigative Poetry 3). It might
also explain the characteristic poem:
narrative in form; prosy in texture; concerned, invariably, to tell
the story of the emergence of the Beat
sensibility. Sanders, then, can be understood as a poet poised
between the compulsion to name and
the obligation to narrate. To understand what it means to be so
poised, I will explore his relation to the

Beat aesthetic through three categories central to his writing:
controls, histories, and journeys.
"Poem from Jail," the first work in Sanders's Selected Poems,
was written during his imprisonment (for
seventy-five days) following his participation in the protest
against the commissioning of the Polaris
nuclear submarine Ethan Allen (Thirsting 238-41). This direct
contact with a confining social institution
proved foundational to Sanders's poetry, giving rise to a
sustained (career-long) meditation on forms of
social control. The experience of jail was, of course, Sanders's
own.(n2) Control, however, was a theme
already much explored by Beat writing, "Howl" in particular,
making it its business to name the
mechanisms of social control (Moloch). It is in his variation on
this theme that Sanders registers most
clearly the difficulties of writing after Ginsberg.
This is not to deny that in certain respects Sanders extends and
deepens the Beat analysis of control.
His outstanding volume in this respect is Egyptian
Hieroglyphics (1973). The volume is not without its
measure of strain, casting as far back as "Ab-Mer: A Love Story
of 1985 B.C." and as far forward as
"A.D. 20,000" in an attempt to find new poetic territory. As
these temporal extremes indicate, however,
Egyptian Hieroglyphics is Sanders's most experimental volume,
and through these experiments he
advances the Beat appreciation of social control. In particular,
he develops a nuanced idiom for the
description of forms of surveillance.(n3) Starting with "The
Singer" and concluding with "Report: Council
of Eye-Forms Data Squad," Sanders devotes a series of poems
to this question, the aim of which is to
render what might be termed a post-Watergate sensibility, the

outcome being a poetry derived from the
idiom of the case report:
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Dimensional Adjustment Procedures enabled the
Eye-Form Surveillance Team to observe the Princess
arriving in the first sections of the Underworld. (Thirsting 115)
Sanders's response, in turn, to the fact of surveillance is the
rhetoric of "investigation." "The Age" opens with the
declaration
that
This is the Age of Investigation, and every citizen must
investigate! For the pallid tracks of guilt and death,
slight as they are, suffuse upon the retentive
electromagnetic data-retrieval systems of our era.
(Thirsting 137)
Investigation is Sanders's big idea: witness his confident
proclamation of it here and his extended
exploration of its implications in his manifesto. And it is, in
fact, a skillful development of Beat rhetoric.
The effect of the term is to adjust the spirit of avant-garde
inquiry to the demands of an environment in
which state power is increasingly intrusive. Investigative Poetry
is therefore an act of naming, Sanders
endeavoring to name the aesthetic procedure by which poetry
can usefully engage with modern forms

of social control. With his rhetoric of investigation Sanders can
confidently be thought to have achieved
a way of writing after "Howl."
By the same token, it is hardly deniable that it is in his
endeavor to advance the Beat inquiry into the
thematics of control that Sanders demonstrates most clearly the
difficulties of his position. His attempts,
for instance, to continue the testing of taboos and his efforts to
extend the language of excess invariably
result in a form of poetic utterance that serves only to parody
the Beat achievement. "Elm-Fuck Poem"
is a case in point:
The ba ba lanolin fur-ears
sex
Trembling Lamb
where I enter the
matted meat
of trembly sheep
and the cunt warm
& woman sized
offered by the lamb. (Thirsting 47)
No doubt the justification for such a poem has to do with
organicism. It does not seem humorless to
suggest, however, that poetry of this sort is much more likely to
entrench gender oppression than it is to
liberate its reader from sexual constraints. And if the desire to
continue to test the limits of social control
can find Sanders producing the kind of gratuitous poetry that
gives Beat a bad name, so his analysis of
the mechanisms of social control too often results in a distorted
sense of the poet's role. Thus in
Investigative Poetry Sanders urges the reader not to "forget for
one microsecond that the government
throughout history has tried to suppress, stamp down, hinder

dissident or left-wing poets" (12). There is
more than a whiff of paranoia here, and arguably that intense
anxiety has as much to do with the
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compulsion to find ways of writing about control after "Howl"
as it has to do with the post-Watergate
climate in which the poem was written. Either way it is a
paranoid vision that generates a dismayingly
partial view of the poet's function. Thus Blake is observed to
"back away from historical poetry and to
retreat, if that is the word, into a poetry of symbols"
(Investigative Poetry 12). As if symbolism had
nothing to do with poetry--as if it had nothing to do with Beat.
To recall Stein's formulation, Sanders's efforts to develop the
Beat nomenclature measure the difficulty
of coming after. After all, what else is there to say? His
investigation of the theme of control, though
marked by a certain deepening, has tended to lead him down
blind alleys, exploring corners of
experience and writing that have gone unnamed precisely
because they are of peripheral significance.
His response to this difficulty, as Muckle's equation and
Ginsberg's achievement predict, has been
increasingly to tell the story, one way or another, of the
emergence of the Beat sensibility, of how the
names became the names. This should not be thought to

represent a falling off. Sanders, as Tales of
Beatnik Glory shows, tells a good story. He is also intimate, as
his anxious relationship with Ginsberg
makes clear, with the inner workings of the Beat aesthetic.
Arguably, the story of the aesthetic is his
proper subject. In telling that story, Sanders sometimes dwells
directly, as in his Tales, on his part in the
history of the Beat period. The poem "Ramamir," for instance,
relates a late-fifties love affair, whereas
"Sappho on East Seventh" recalls the visions of an ambitious
young poet. Invariably, though, his more
ambitious intention is to contextualize the Beat way of being.
What such contextualizing amounts to is
an ongoing study of historical subcultures and bohemian
milieus. These studies start with "Egyptian
Hieroglyphics," which, as Sanders observes, were "inspired by
researchers into possible artistic
rebellion in the rather totalitarian milieu of ancient Egypt. I was
looking for Lost Generations, for sistra-
shaking Dadaists in tent towns on the edge of half-finished
pyramids, for cubists in basalt, for free-
speech movements on papyrus" (Thirsting 244). He was looking,
that is, for a genealogy of dissent, for a
historical angle of vision that shows the Beat project to be not a
momentary aberration but a further
eruption of a vibrant radical tradition. "Yiddish-Speaking
Socialists of the Lower East Side" traces that
genealogy closer to home, telling how the arrival of East
European emigres in the first decade of the
century radicalized the quarter the Beats would later make their
own. More recently, Chekhov,
Sanders's extended verse biography of the Russian writer,
amounts to a study of dissent in czarist
Russia. With the names already named, the second generation of
Beat writers was allocated the more
prosaic task of telling how the names became the names.

Sanders's histories of poetic dissent
constitute an effective strategy for writing after Ginsberg.
It is, however, in his development of the trope of the journey
that Sanders has dealt most effectively with
his particular anxieties of influence. The journey is, of course,
pivotal to the rhetoric of Beat inquiry,
affording an opportunity both to critique and to revitalize the
American experience. In both On the Road
and Naked Lunch progress west is displaced by an itinerant,
unsettled lifestyle, whereas the idea of the
frontier is transformed from a colonial limit to a pragmatic
encounter with the new. For Ginsberg in
particular, the journey thus carries religious overtones, Beat
becoming a pilgrimage by which the
revelation is perpetually earned. In "The Green Automobile" the
car proves a form not just of
transportation but of transport, in which
we'd batter up the cloudy highway
where the angels of anxiety
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careen through the trees
and scream out of the engine. (Ginsberg 83)
Broadly speaking, then, Sanders's poetic journeying locates his
writing in the Beat tradition. There is a
more precise sense, however, in which the idea of the journey

comes to enable Sanders to explore his
relation to the Beat aesthetic. The journey affords his poetry a
structure, but one which is loose enough
not to restrict inquiry. Formally speaking, it enables the poet
both to relate a story (of how one traveled
from a to b) and to digress into areas of his own experience. It
permits him, in other words, to mediate
the differing functions of narrating and naming. Accordingly, it
is through the trope of the journey that
Sanders is most able to negotiate his relation to his immediate
predecessors, is most able to sustain the
momentum of the Beat movement while arriving at observations
distinctively his own.
In the note to "Poem from Jail" Sanders observes that "It was
my first work, after years of search, that I
felt fit in with the best of my generation" (Thirsting 241).
Sanders's reflection betrays an anxiety. The
poem is a product of both years of search (so by implication the
desire to find something differentiating
to say) and a desire to fit in with the best of his generation. The
anxiety of influence that results from
these competing compulsions is apparent in the rhetorical
texture of "Poem from Jail." A passage from
the first part of the poem recalls how
we have seen denied
Mao's creation,
And we have denied
van Gogh's crow
shrieking on the
horizon,
and Rouault's Jesus.
Chant Chant
O American!
lift up the Stele

anti bomb. (Thirsting 5)
Despite the "shrieking" and chanting, one would not mistake
this for a passage from Ginsberg. The
collage of sources is Ginsberg-like, but the sources themselves
are not. Yet if this is not Ginsberg's
rhetoric, one could not confidently say that it was …

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