The National Writing Project’s Write Out ended last Friday with the National Day on Writing. All the wonderful content is still available, and my students aren’t ready to stop writing. Yesterday we perused the site and found information about Phillis Wheatley from the Boston National Historic Park. When I was researching to write poems for my forthcoming book Were You There: Biography of Emma Wakefield Piallet, I used a line of Phillis Wheatley to write a golden shovel. I shared the mentor text with my students.
They were fascinated to try writing golden shovels, so we found a poem written by Phillis Wheatley on Poetry Foundation. We read “A Hymn to the Evening.”
A Hymn to the Evening
Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
Phillis Wheatley, read the complete poem here.
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
Thursday was a special day in our small room. The butterfly whose chrysalis lay on the zipper finally emerged. We were excited because it meant we could finally open the enclosure to release them all. We had four that I had been feeding with mandarin oranges from the cafeteria.
We had the privilege of watching their daily antics and marveling at their beauty. The butterflies were Gulf fritillaries. And flit they did. This breed was less tame than the monarchs we have raised before. They did not light easily on a finger. We had some exciting moments trying to catch them all.
But we did and together released them into the butterfly garden. Luckily one of them hung around for a photo.
My mind and my golden shovel poem were both on this miracle of Mother Nature.
A Hymn for the Gulf Fritillary
after Phillis Wheatley
“A Hymn to the Evening”Fritillary soft
Margaret Simon, draft
petals purl
from enclosure to the
spread of wings, flitting over streams,
freedom like the
birds
who renew,
survive and thrive singing their
tender, sweet notes.
Reflections on the Teche 