09 Sep

  • By Mr Wilson

In 1942 Beatrice Harrison, a concert cellist was being recorded by the BBC in her garden. As they were testing the sound they recorded a nightingale singing. Accidentally, Lancaster Bombers then flew over on a raid to Germany.

Listen to the recording here

The outcome was a juxtaposition of the beauty and peacefulness being broken by the menacing sound of planes on their way to bomb. The primary students were asked to write poems that described this and I think you will agree their work is quite remarkable.

nightingale

Read the poems below and click on the link for the winning poem

The Nightingale’s Melody

 

The Nightingale sang his melody for me

On that summers eve

It was so true and pure

I could hardly breathe,

On that summers eve.

 

Soon came the sound of ear-splitting bombers,

On that summers eve

Which cast a cold shadow across my soul

But the nightingale still sang,

On that summers eve.

 

By Kelsey Chadwick

 

 

When the Nightingale Sang

 

One spring evening in nineteen forty-two,

A nightingale waited for the music he knew,

But no one had told the news to the bird,

The cello he loved must not be heard.

 

So on his own he sang in his sweetest tone,

Till the peace was shattered by a rumbling drone,

Of many planes eastward bound,

The nightingale’s beautiful song was almost drowned.

 

By  Leanne Fellows

 

 

The Bomber and the Nightingale

 

I see in the sky a sluggish bomber,

Then all of a sudden without a comma,

It drops a bomb, a dreadful sound,

A sound that echoes all around.

 

Then I see, low down in the east,

A nightingale having a feast,

Then it sings with every bit of its might,

While in the distance the bombers dogfight.

 

By Charlie Shaw

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sounds of Freedom

 

I stood in the garden alone,

The air still and cooling,

Perfumed by Peonies,

I hear a distant dog bark and a horse snuffling,

I hear the opening bars of a wonderful new song,

Sung by a world famous vocalist, the Nightingale arrives

Inspired, wild and free,

He sings his untamed melody,

Awed, I listen in wonder – and then I hear another sound,

An unnatural Merlin approaches,

A hunter against the hunted.

 

I think of that tin can hurtling through the sky

And its crew of young men,

I think of them trapped inside, shivering with fear, chilled, deafened,

The acrid stink of grease, oil, sweat, and Elsans,

They do their duty fighting to free the oppressed,

From the dictator,

So they can sing their own song of freedom.

The Nightingale will return next year to sing again,

But how many of those young men will return tonight…?

 

By Drew Harvey

 

 

A Cello, A Nightingale…Bombers!

 

I closed my eyes drifting in thought

The melodic beautiful sound –

The Nightingale as it sought,

To captivate me, spellbound.

 

He trilled up high, he warbled low

He danced lightly the path between

Skipping past, meandering slow

So magical was the scene.

 

My dreams were rudely interrupted,

Was it the honey bees swarming?

My cello stopped playing, disrupted –

It came from nowhere without warning.

 

The drumming sound was coming near

Reluctantly I opened my eyes,

To behold bombers; I froze with fear

Was it enemies or allies?

 

The peace was shattered, calm destroyed

Like an oil painting ripped apart.

Silencing all I had enjoyed,

Bringing pain to nature’s heart.

 

By Brontë Cooper

 

The Song of the Nightingale

 

Oh the blissful singing,

Relieving my worries,

It is so calm and relaxing,

Making me think,

The war has finally ended.

 

Oh dear now,

The song is getting me stressed,

Oh how can I relieve the stress?

If I could only wish,

Just one thing,

The war should end.

 

By Rhianna Hill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sound of the Bombers

 

I hear a roaring engine,

I look above

There I see Lancaster Bomber,

My loving friend,

The Nightingale,

Was near me when the bombers came across.

 

I had a lot of pain and discomfort,

And so did my friend,

The nightingale,

I was very fortunate that I did not play my violin,

Because the crafty Lancaster Bomber fighters,

Would record my playing,

Then broadcast it around the world.

 

 

By Rhianna Hill

 

 

 

On that day in 1942,

The Nightingale sang its sweet song,

It lilted along the breeze,

The song so pure and long!

 

And then came the sound,

Droning and roaring,

You could hear from all around,

Leaving fumes and horror!

 

By Sienna Davey

 

 

 

Little nightingales singing away

As if it sounds like it wants to play

The beautiful song filled the air

As if it was singing to the mare.

 

The Lancaster Bombers roared overhead

As I was sleeping in my wooden bed.

The propellers whizzing around

As bombs dropped to the ground.

 

By Percy Wilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The peace of a wartime garden,

Is broken by a bird.

Its beautiful tune, that ends so soon,

The loveliest I’ve ever heard.

 

But THEN drones overhead,

The protector in the skies.

Its powerful roar, like never before,

A majestic sight to the eyes.

 

By Miller Harvey

 

 

Juxtaposition on the Images of a Nightingale and Bombers

 

My ears twitch in the wind as the flute

Like melody drifts through the air.

The sweet odour of the beautiful surroundings:

As my body feels the warmth of the full notes

Harmonising perfectly with the picturesque image in my mind.

 

Suddenly the deathly boom

Strikes the earth in a whining pitch

The ghastly smell of terror thought the gas:

As my body shakes because of the cold

And the shattered image seeming historically distant.

 

By Max Simpson

 

 

Oh what a beauty

Is this bird,

And its song

Is the loveliest I’ve heard!

 

Oh what a contrast

Is this plane

And if you looked for differences

None of them would be the same.

 

Trenton Shaw

 

Nightingale and Bomber

 

I hear a nightingale,

I feel so relaxed

As the nightingale

Sings its beautiful song.

 

I hear a bomber,

That shatters my peace

I hear a hum

As the bombers fly over.

 

Wynn McEwan

 

Love and Hate

 

My nightingale song is full of grace

Every note is a different pace,

It can sing Alto, Soprano, but not quite base.

My Nightingale…

 

Now the bombers are flying over my land

Changing the song at every hand,

But the droning sounds like an out of tune band.

The bombers…

 

These sounds are strange when they combine

These sounds will never be in time,

Oh, for a song that sounds just fine.

My nightingale and the bombers…

 

By Zoe Chadwick

 

 

The Vivid Nightingale and the Troublesome Bombers

 

Feeling relaxed as the Nightingale sings.

A bright sensation it certainly brings.

Peacefulness comes about with our feathered friend.

A soft warm glow from back to tail-end.

 

Trouble emotions with the bomber come,

The eerie sound makes your insides so numb,

The rattling rumble and cold dense steel

Thoughts of war give a tense, uneasy feel.

 

By Art Swindell

 

 

Down in the meadow

Where sleeping animals lie,

The Nightingale stirs.

As the animals wake

Its voice sounds loud and clear

As if it were near.

 

The Nightingale’s voice changes note

As the droning of the bomber is heard.

They disturb the peace

As they appear on the scene

Polluting the clear blue sky.

 

By Lyall Harvey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nightingale Sings its Fame

 

I was practising my cello one evening,

As the birds settled down to sleep.

But one was awakening to sing its fame,

As it sang the birds did sleep.

 

As the camouflaged Nightingale started to perform

(What beauty was its song)

A sound of fear touched my ears,

Bombers in the sky did throng.

 

The whirring sound of the evil planes

Hovering overhead

Panicking humans to rush to shelters,

Those planes too wicked to be said!

 

By Kaye Lander