"Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door."
Anne Bradstreet. "The Author of my Book". November 1988. March 2008 <http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/Bradstreet/bradpoems.htm>.
By the Student,
The speaker goes from disgusted at her poems and not wanting to show them to the world to finally grudgingly accepting the fact that she must publish them into the world in all of their incomplete and otherwise flawed glory.
This poem also expresses the fact that the speaker is human and must learn to live with things that she is not necessarily content with in order to live and eventually get to heaven, in typical Puritan fashion.
She also says that the public does not understand her as a poet, but she must put up with harsh criticism to help not only herself, but other women striving to be something better.
By a Young Girl,
Dear Diary,
Today's poem made me feel guilty about yesterday's poem. I didn't understand all of it and now Ms. Bradstreet is saying, "Shame on you! I did not want to publish these because of ignorant pests like you who don't get my poems!" Let me just say that I am sorry, ma'am.
No word back from Father yet. I know that it has only been a couple of days, but the household is always antsy for the first few and then we settle back into quiet hope and prayers.
At least I am better off than these poor crippled poems who must say that they have no father at all. For now at least. My friend Ruth got word that her father was sent to Heaven today in the fight for God.
God's grace,
Mary
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door."
Anne Bradstreet. "The Author of my Book". November 1988. March 2008 <http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/Bradstreet/bradpoems.htm>.
By the Student,
The speaker goes from disgusted at her poems and not wanting to show them to the world to finally grudgingly accepting the fact that she must publish them into the world in all of their incomplete and otherwise flawed glory.This poem also expresses the fact that the speaker is human and must learn to live with things that she is not necessarily content with in order to live and eventually get to heaven, in typical Puritan fashion.
She also says that the public does not understand her as a poet, but she must put up with harsh criticism to help not only herself, but other women striving to be something better.
By a Young Girl,
Dear Diary,
Today's poem made me feel guilty about yesterday's poem. I didn't understand all of it and now Ms. Bradstreet is saying, "Shame on you! I did not want to publish these because of ignorant pests like you who don't get my poems!" Let me just say that I am sorry, ma'am.
No word back from Father yet. I know that it has only been a couple of days, but the household is always antsy for the first few and then we settle back into quiet hope and prayers.
At least I am better off than these poor crippled poems who must say that they have no father at all. For now at least. My friend Ruth got word that her father was sent to Heaven today in the fight for God.
God's grace,
Mary
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