READ: 7th Graders Pen Poems after Gilbert Stuart Museum Trip

The Gilbert Stuart Birthplace and museum is a South County treasure, a one-of-a-kind archive of an historic figure, a hotspot for activities and events of all sorts. 

It's also where a group of seventh graders at Davisville Middle School went for a recent field trip.

Afterwards, their language arts teacher, Megan Cady, asked the students to reflect on their experience. 

Here are their poems. The poet's name is below each poem. 

I lay in this bed,
Each time I move the wood creeks,
The dancing flame from the candle makes the walls flash,
The thoughts racing through my mind were relentless,
The crooked floors, the blue chest in the corner, the uneven piece of wood lining the ceiling above my head,
All these little things are making my mind spin.
But the one thing,
The only thing truly making me go mad,

Are the eyes.
Eyes from the paintings, all staring down at me at once,
Every single one of those beady eyes staring blankly at me.
Whenever I move, eyes follow, and when I look away, I can feel those eyes
burning in my back.
And there for a second,
Just for a split second,
Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn,
One of them just blinked. 

~Lily B.

How Grateful I Am
The tilting floors moved like waves
The portraits’ eyes followed in dismay
Twisted light flowed in through uneven glass
The cold air rocked the wooden cradle
How grateful am I? 

Short door lips kissed tall heads
Holey beams threatened to fall

The lonely black kettle hung waiting to scream
The blue trunk with its locked away secrets
How grateful am I? 

A lumpy old bed resting on a net of ropes
A cold fireplace dreaming of dancing with red-hot sparks
The chamber pot just a mere bowl in a box
Yet quite very useful when you’re in need at night
How grateful am I? 

The smell of must wafts all around you
The paint peeling away from the walls like the white paper bark of a birch tree
No electricity, nor plumbing, or heating alike
Just candles, a chamber pot, and a fireplace
How grateful am I?

I’ll tell you how grateful I am

I am as grateful as someone who has light with the flip of a switch
Who has heat with the turn of a knob
Toilets that can flush
And a nice warm bed
How grateful am I to live in this time of luxury 

~ Marisa C.

A Man, His House, and His Paintbrush
Faces on the wall
Ghosts of portraits linger still,
Sends chills down the spine. 

Hundreds of days dedicated
To painting the faces
Of those who would much rather not have waited. 

~ Maddy Y.

Wait, what? I can’t understand!
She said get water, I could use a hand. 

We put the bucket into the stream,
And we pulled it up as a team. 

The bucket weighed a million tons,
Carrying it was no fun.

Suddenly, the icy water started to spill,
And for the rest of the day I felt a chill.

When we saw the place where the water would stay,
It was a thousand miles away.

We poured the water into its place,
And my friend had a tired face.

We had to do this again and again,
It seemed as if it would never end.

When it was over I heard this sound,
The crazy lady poured the water on the ground! 

~ Emily S.

Gilbert Stuart
He painted the portrait on the dollar bill,
He grew up with a snuff and a grist mill.
He was dedicated and gave all of his devotion,
He painted like the wind with one single motion. 

~ Jillian T.

The Gilbert Stuart Museum
Getting a tour of the mill,
Looking at old pictures on the windowsill.
Listening to the water splash,
The wheel carrying water, smash!
Listening to a language unknown,
Keeping quiet as I sew alone.
Hauling water and wood,
Like a slave doing what I should.
Portraits staring back at me,
Almost as if they could see.
I did what I was told,
I didn’t want them to scold. 

~ Shannon M.

Beauty
Walking through the narrow doors,
Breathing in the scent of moth balls.
Letting my eyes take in every sight,
Observing every detail,
From the slanted floors to the ancient wooden beams,
As boring as that sounds, it’s breath-taking to me.
It’s like a blast from the past.
Embracing the beauty all around me,
Portraits of ones who have passed speak to me.
Each painting holds marvelous tales,
From slaves to presidents,
And all in between.
They never fail to amaze me.
So much beauty,
It may be unrecognizable,
But it’s beauty. 

~ Caroline W. 

Hanging Portraits
Hanging portraits on the wall,
Staring at you, everywhere you go.
So many everywhere you look,
Very detailed, and one unfinished.
You can see all the portraits in the hall. 

Working hard as slaves,
Hauling buckets of water down a hill,
Grinding corn into dust,
Having fun doing all, even just learning.
Walking around learning more and more,
Seeing things I never knew. 

~ Rachael M

Life as a Slave
Life as a slave
First task – water
As I captured the water, it splashed on my feet.
I carried it to the pot and could smell the cut wood.
Getting water was a cycle.
Life as  a slave
Second task – corn
Rattle, rattle was what I kept hearing as I pulled the corn off its cob.
The corn, yellow as a dandelion, seem to fly down to the bowl.
Next thing I knew I was pounding a rock.
The bang of rock crashing down on the corn hurt my head once I was done.

Life as a slave
Last task – sewing
With every seam the needle prod my finger.
It was my first time. Became easier with each seam.

Life as a slave

~ Emily J.

A Day as a Slave
Whoa, what? Who is this lady?
She’s not speaking English, she must be crazy!
I try to imagine actually living here,
All the cruel, hard work, I would be in such fear.

Grinding corn, fetching buckets of overflowing water,
Now-a-days, kid’s wouldn’t even both.
Slaves working as hard as a sponge cleaning glasses,
This seems way too hard, I would rather be in my classes!
However, I know one thing, that’s for sure,
I’m so privileged to not have these chores. 

~ Olivia A.

Gilbert Stuart’s Birthplace
The old wooden floorboards moaned throughout the halls,
Portraits looking down at you lined the walls.
The water wheels are pinwheels spinning around and around,
I thought the rotting ceiling beams were going to fall to the ground. 

~ Hannah B.

A Morning in the Past
Eyes are open, world anew,
Fields of green, skies of blue,
Faces of paint, stenciling lines,
Pitiful looks on my pitiful tries,
No, I do not think portraits are right for me.
Onto the fish ladders, the herring from sea,
Learning about mills, it doesn’t look so tough,
But I guess that’s superficial and is really quite rough.
Into the house, there were paintings and more,
A mothball smell, rope bed, at least one slanted floor.
Finally the best part, working as a “slave,”
But of course, we had it easy, look how we behave.
The rope of the water buckets tearing my skin,
The tiny little pockets being sewn with a pin.
Back and forth, back and forth, all while groaning,
Looking around, taking it in,
The vibrant flowers, their stems, oh so thin.
The rushing water roaring with life,
The people who lived here, only imagine the strife.
Look at the time! The past went so fast!
Better catch the bus, don’t want to be last! 

~ Natalie H.

Slavery
Life as a slave was very difficult
Working hard labor all day
With people speaking a language that was like a bird call
Because it did not make sense 

Being worked so hard
You were so hungry you could eat a horse
But there was little or no food for you
It could be spoiled or rotten 

Icy hot pain would run through your body
Your master worked you too hard again
But they could not understand you
And you could not understand them 

They took you away from your home, your family
You long to see them
But your family doesn’t understand why you haven’t come home
You only went to the market that day
But going there has been a price you’re having to pay 

You now are in a place
That they call America
Here, they say, you’re supposed to be free as the water
That gently cascades down the stream
But not you, you’re just a piece of their property
Working so they can have money and food. 

As you lay on the cold, damp floor at night
You look out the tiny little window of your shanty
And as the shooting star you see runs across the sky
You wish you could be back home
But you can’t
You’re a slave,

Remember? 

~ Allison C.

Gilbert Stuart Poem

Lots and lots of work
Self-defeated by grown-ups
Feel like I am a slave
Nobody understands our pain
Time to work, no time to play
Sun beats down on us, we might die
Weak, sore, tired, never happy
Water as heavy as a boulder
No one to take care of us
Adults speak foreign language
No time to sleep, very little to eat
Must do chores all day long 

~ Rachel S.

Gilbert Stuart Museum

My Gilbert Stuart Museum experience was very strange,
Like going into a foreign place,
But I was glad we went there for a change,
Like an astronaut in outer space.

My Gilbert Stuart Museum experience was different,
I got to see a mill,
But the buckets of water I carried took a lot of spills. 

When I went to the museum I thought it was very cool,
But when I got inside the house, it was very warm,
And when I was outside I saw a lot of bee swarms,
After it was all done I really wanted to go to school. 

~ Dylan P.

Gilbert Stuart Field Trip Poem

At Gilbert Stuart’s Birth House we took a tour.
At the end I wanted to know more.
There was a woman speaking another way.
I was so confused, but wanted to stay.
The woman taught us how to sew.
Whoa! I almost stabbed myself with the needle.
We then stacked wood.
I thought they would be heavy and hard to hold, but I didn’t know I actually could.
There was a fake piece of corn on the cob.
Hey! I though this field trip was going to be a mob!
Swish! Went the water.
Creak! Went the wheel.
When we got back, I was so hungry I could have eaten a whale.
Like I was saying, at Gilbert Stuart’s Birth House we took a tour.
At the end I felt kind of sore! 

~ Samantha R.

I am a slave
I am brave
Filling the swishing water buckets high
I hear my cry like raindrops in the sky
Running as fast as I can
Through this hot grassland
Working hard
Day by day
I’m so hungry I could eat all the food
In the world.
But I can’t
I’m a slave
A slave I am 

~ Hannah P.

On May the 6th, I went to school
After I came, they gave us dual
Pleasure. A movie first
And then a trip. I burst
With happiness. I took my pencil, a useful tool,

With me, behind may ear. We got in the bus
And took a ride to Gilbert Stuart Museum (40 of us).
We got off the bus and crossed the street
Somebody (EJ) stepped on my feet
We got into groups without a fuss.

On our first step, we went to Mrs. Lambert.
We sat down and she, with a curt
Smile, welcomed us in.
We were making portraits – I gave a grin.
We had limited time, I brushed dirt
 
Off my paper. We left.
We went to the Birthing Room, on the left
Of the door. It was small
You could say. “We had a ball”.
I discovered a pencil, not a theft,
 
Behind my ear. We went to see Ms. Kozun and
We looked at water, herrings, sand,
We were supposed to do math, but
The groups got mixed up, we were in a cut
We were given a grand
 
Tour of the snuff mill.
I leaned on the windowsill,
Looked down, and discovered
A stream covered
By a bridge and dam, it made me fill
 
My brain with knowledge about it.
They made it sit.
The horror!
The terror!
The woman spoke in Swedish. She sent us to the brightly lit
 
Outside. We hauled water, and became wet
We destroyed corn, and they made us get
A needle, and sew,
And they made us go
To Ms. Cady in a room with a bed on a net.
 
And then I wrote this. 

~ Dina F.