The book of Ann is the 12th FRIOUR project.

Who is Ann? For me she is a real person.
For you she's a mythical femail.

Let's construct together the book of Ann!

How does she feel? How does she thinks? How does she act? Is she a rebel? Is she a mother? Is she the salt of the earth?

Free size and medium. Text and poems are also welcome. Deadline for contributions is 31 December 2011.
All the contributions will be united in a time capsule.
Documentation on this blog.
Unfriendly femail mail art will be banned.

Mail address: The book of Ann, c/o Guido Vermeulen, Thomas Vinçottestreet 81, B-1030 Brussels, Belgium

Email: signsstones@yahoo.com

Zoeken in deze blog

vrijdag 11 februari 2011

ANNE BRADSTREET (1612 - 1672)




Guido,

We all come from and return to someplace for some reason.

Anne Bradstreet, one of the first American poets, was among the wave of seventeenth century English Puritans emigrating to America to escape religious intolerance in England though her poetry was published in England and not in America in her lifetime due to intolerance for education for women by the Puritans in America. She endured harsh living conditions, diseases, 8 childbirths, fire, homelessness and intolerance to emerge as one of the first American poets in the seventeenth century.

David Stone, USA

PS
Reference: John Berryman (poet of The Dream Songs) wrote also a long poem titled; Homage to Mistress Bradstreet.

PROLOGUE
A poem by Anne Bradstreet

1 To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,
2 Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,
3 For my mean Pen are too superior things;
4 Or how they all, or each their dates have run,
5 Let Poets and Historians set these forth.
6 My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.

7 But when my wond'ring eyes and envious heart
8 Great Bartas' sugar'd lines do but read o'er,
9 Fool, I do grudge the Muses did not part
10 'Twixt him and me that over-fluent store.
11 A Bartas can do what a Bartas will
12 But simple I according to my skill.

13 From School-boy's tongue no Rhet'ric we expect,
14 Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,
15 Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect.
16 My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings,
17 And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,
18 'Cause Nature made it so irreparable.

19 Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greek
20 Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain.
21 By Art he gladly found what he did seek,
22 A full requital of his striving pain.
23 Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure:
24 A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

25 I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
26 Who says my hand a needle better fits.
27 A Poet's Pen all scorn I should thus wrong,
28 For such despite they cast on female wits.
29 If what I do prove well, it won't advance,
30 They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.

31 But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
32 Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
33 And poesy made Calliope's own child?
34 So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts divine,
35 But this weak knot they will full soon untie.
36 The Greeks did nought but play the fools and lie.

37 Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.
38 Men have precedency and still excel;
39 It is but vain unjustly to wage war.
40 Men can do best, and Women know it well.
41 Preeminence in all and each is yours;
42 Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.

43 And oh ye high flown quills that soar the skies,
44 And ever with your prey still catch your praise,
45 If e'er you deign these lowly lines your eyes,
46 Give thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no Bays.
47 This mean and unrefined ore of mine
48 Will make your glist'ring gold but more

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