Anne Bradstreet's Poem

Anne Bradstreet was a Puritist from Northampton, England who emigrated to America in the 1630's. She was very educated in history, several languages, and literature, but, it didn't help her in the boat ride to America. She managed to survive, but caught smallpox, and a paralysis in her joints. She had eight children, and her husband, Simon Bradstreet, was involved in politics and there for was away for extended periods of tim. Anne spent her time reading her father's collection of books, as well as educating her children. Reading helped Anne cope with her new life.

Tragedy befell the Bradstreet family when their homes went up in flames, leaving the family homeless. They eventually got back to their feet, thanks to their hard work and Simon's standing in the community.

Anne wrote poetry, and was quite fond of it. However, back at that time, women weren't allowed to pursue intellectual enlightenment. Not ever create their own opinions. She didn't intend on publishing her works,but her brother in law, John Woodbridge, secretly copied her work and brought it to England to have the poems published without Anne's permission. John Admitted to copying her works in the preface the the first collection, which was published in 1650. It was the last poetry published in her lifetime. All of her other poems were published after her death.

One of her poems, "The Author to Her Book," is written like she's talking to a baby in the beginning. It's hard to interpret what she's saying, but at one point, Anne seems to be talking about her paralysis. "I strecht thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet."(line 15 & 16) At another, it seems that she's talking to the poem. "My rambling brat (in print) should mother call." (line 8) It's confusing, yet I can understand it in a strange way. That shows how I perceive art. I perceive it in a way that I can't seem to put into words.

Here's her poem.

The Author To Her Book

Thou ill-formed 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 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 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 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 askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy mother, she alas is poor, Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.