Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick 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,
Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht 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 home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst vulgars mayst thou roam
In critics hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd 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>.
Reflection: Anne Bradstreet uses symbolism, diction, and mood in order to express her regret and then grudging acceptance of the publication of her flawed works through the voice of an irritated mother dealing with an unruly child.
Dear Diary,
When I read this poem I have to admit I thought it was rather strange. Bradstreet certainly has an unusual way of writing. In this poem she described her poems as her "children." I thought it was interesting how she would address her work like it was an unruly child who couldn't stop making mistakes. Once her work was published it was found to be flawed and she couldn't fix it which caused her frustration.
Speaking of frustration, the other day one of the children, John, couldn't be found anywhere. The whole town was worried and went searching for him all around the settlement. It turns out that he had been out on the beach trying to skip rocks! We gave him a scolding and sent him off to bed for causing such worry. We thought he may have been captured by the Natives! I doubt that he understood our worry though and I'm sure he will keep getting into trouble. Boys will be boys.
God's peace be with you,
Matthew
1 comment:
This is a much better diary entry, in my opinion. I like that you keep referring to stuff from the other parts of the blog/history, which kid of ties it all together.
I thought of the poem more as a mother getting frustrated with the public because they could not see past the blemishes that her children have instead of being angry with the children themselves. Any good mother couldn't expect her kids to be perfect!
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