"The Author To Her Book"

"The Author to Her Book"
by: Anne Bradstreet

http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/webtexts/Bradstreet/bradpoems.htm#author

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. 1678
j

Reflection: This poem is about an authors own disgust at her attempt at literature, no matter what others may think of it she still finds fault with it because she is it's creator. No artist is ever satisfied with his work, thus no writer is satisfied with hers. Who knows why, it is there curse to never believe that their work is worthy of the praise given it by the people around them. It is also their gift, to continue to improve in their respective field as they constantly ridicule themselves. I chose this poem because it portrays this peculiar trait of these people in a humorous manner. No doubt she herself suffers from the same affliction and in this poem she makes light of all author’s inferiority to meet their own standards.

Diary: Why is it thus that they are never acceptable. They are all inferior in some way, and were I to fix them who knows what would happen to the rest. Short, long, childish, silly, serious; none of them work. I hate them all. The people around me all praise them, using words such as fantastic and brilliant. They do not see what I see, I do not understand them. How can they praise such mediocrity, it sickens me. How can my work compare to that of Geoffrey Chaucer or the creator of Beowulf whose name has yet to be revealed. What is my work next to their brilliance? It is nothing.

j