Something different!

Friday (26th September) was European Day of Languages, and at The Grove Academy we have been discussing different languages we speak, learning some new foreign words and discovering just how many languages there are in the world and how many are in danger.

In 6R we like to try to take our register in as many languages as possible, so we have recorded some greetings in a range of languages. We hope that you will learn something!

Street Child Narrative

In Year 5 we have adapted Street Child slightly to create our own original version. From 5E, here is Yeganeh's start of her story. Can you see what aspect she has changed?

Unfortunate, infant Jim Jarvis was using the last of his energy to purchase a marvellous, attractive meat pie with his last shilling. Rambling amongst the crowd, he was trying not to touch the delicious morsel until arriving home.

Ma tenderly lay on the rough, pathetic bed like a broken twig. Her pale glow drowns in the blacked out room. Emily, terrified with fear of her mother's impending death, approached her mother. Louise, petrified of dying in starvation, her face lit up as soon as she witnessed the odour of the meat pie wafting through the formidable door.

Jim, Emily and Louise greedily scoffed their meat pie down to stop guilt gulping up the three of them. A trio of crumbles were left on the floor for the next morning. All hope was shattered. Their shillings were now extinct, like dinosaurs. What will happen to them next?

Sun shines outside yet neither Jim nor Louise nor Emily were awoken by it due to the fact that their room was heavily blacked out. Ma woke to the rustlings of street children outside. "Will I one day be living outside amongst them?" Jim wondered to himself.

Silently, the doorknob turned. Outside was a vexed person, who was known as Mr Spink, the house owner, standing as still as a stick. 

"Time's up!" Screeched the ogre. He waited. He picked up the purse. "It was an honest rent. It was only one shilling!".

A few seconds later, Jim found himself telling the truth. 

"Save it, sonny! Out with you all. NOW!". Mr Spink wandered around and picked up Louise's boots and threw them out. 

Petrified about their troubled and uncertain future, the children's heavily fatigued mother led the desolate way towards the land of her second to last hope: Rosie's house. As soon as the door opened, Rosie was filled with joy.

"Long time no see!". 

WW1 atmospheric writing

6R have been looking at atmospheric writing, analysing it and identifying the features that make it effective. We discovered that we needed to keep our sentences fairly simple while at the same time engaging the reader's senses and emotions. Using an extract from Michael Morpurgo's Private Peaceful as inspiration, we then wrote our own atmospheric passages set in WW1.

Frightened, I witness undead-looking men sprinting, staggering, stumbling. I make out Pete anxiously calling out for me. Then my collar is pulled tight and we're away. Urgently... I have.. to breathe... now! I can't... get away... without breathing! My vision obscured by the condensation in my misty mask, I slip and fall, smashing my fragile head against the muddied parapet, dizzying myself. My gas mask, too large for me, has slipped down my face. I yank it back on but I have inhaled and know what is going to happen: it is too late. My red eyes are watering. My lungs are sizzling. I am gagging, retching, suffocating. I don't mind where I am going as long as I am not anywhere near the gas. I'm away from it. I rip off my mask, gulping down pure air. Seconds later, I'm on the ground, on my sweaty hands and bruised knees, vomiting violently. Finally, when the worst of it is over, I stare up through blood-red, crying eyes. A Hun in a filthy gas mask is towering over me, his loaded rifle aimed in between my eyes. I am unarmed. This is it: my grave.

 

By Harry, 6R

Atmospheric writing in 6F

In Year 6 we have been identifying what makes good, atmospheric writing. By using an extract from Michael Morpurgo's Private Peaceful as inspiration, we then wrote our own atmospheric passages. We worked hard on using description, figurative language and punctuation to generate a tense, exciting atmosphere in the context of a WW1 battlefield.

Here is Anish's:

The men are ants, scurrying, crawling, dying. Gravely, I hear
Pete calling for me. Out of nowhere, he grabs me tightly and I limp after him. I am in dire need of air. I can’t do it... Half-blinded by my mask, I stumble, colliding with the trench wall, knocking myself half-unconscious. My gas mask has slipped off. Instantaneously, I pull it down again, however I know it is too late. My throat is smouldering. My lungs are burning. I am coughing, retching, choking. I’m running anywhere; I don’t care, as long as it is away from the gas. I’m out! I wrench off my mask, panting and gasping for air. Helplessly, I fall on my knees, vomiting violently. At last, when the torture has ended, I look up through blurred and sobbing eyes. Suddenly, a devil of a man appears, pointing his rifle at me. I’m powerless. I can hear the rapid rattle of rifles in the distance. Soon another will join the chorus. It is the end...

Narrative Writing

L.I. To use the features of narrative writing.


As the busy people bustled around the nippy street, Jim Jarvis dashed to the bakery for a delectable chocolate cake. His feet were numb with cold but he didn't care. He kept on dodging through the industrious crowds. Very soon, he arrived at the bakery. His shilling was as hot as coal in his clammy fist.
"Mrs Hodder! Mrs Hodder, where are you? I've got a shilling to buy a cake! It's Ma's last one, so make it big!" called Jim from the front room. Subsequently, the baker ambled in. She was a short, stout woman with wispy hair. She tottered back into the back room, then after about ten seconds, she came back with a ginormous chocolate cake, oozing with a melted chocolate filling. Jim darted back home clutching the cake to his chest, the palatable smell invading his nose.


After a while, he arrived home. His sisters, Lizzie and Emily, had their backs turned on him.
"I've got the cake, I've got the cake!" sang Jim mockingly.
"Shush! Ma's asleep," Lizzie and Emily snapped.
"But she's been sleeping for three days!" Jim protested. He was getting more and more distraught about his ma by the second.
"Be quiet and eat your cake, Jim," scolded Emily.
"What about Ma?" enquired Jim.
"She ain't eatin' no more," replied Lizzie.
"But-" started Jim.
"Shut your pie-hole and eat, Jim!" yelled Emily and Lizzie. The children tried to savour it but it grew cold before they could finish it. In front of the warmth of the hearth, they drifted off to sleep.


The next morning, Jim was abruptly woken up by the sound of a slamming door. It was none other than the volatile Mr Spink.
"Annie Jarvis! Where's your rent money? I bet you've gone and wasted or hidden it, haven't you? Hang on, forget that, have you been eating cake?" snarled Mr Spink.


By Haddy, 5G

6B atmospheric writing

This week in Year Six we have been learning about the features of atmospheric writing. We created our own battle scene descriptions and used lots of techniques to draw the reader in. What features can you see in this WAGOLL?


Tottering, crumbling soldiers, who are drenched in mud, hasten past revolting trenches. Even their unfortunate faces are covered. Flares skyrocket up to the clouds, touching the glistening stars.
 "Gas masks on boys!". Pete, my old friend, clutches my shoulder with frozen hands. I forget to breathe. It impedes my body. My sight, which is disadvantaged by the poisonous green gas, causes me to collapse. I am shaking. I am filled with stress. My unconsciousness beats me...


Flabbergasted that my gas mask has fallen off. The stench of the repellent, horrendous gas engulfs my lungs. I inhale, it's too late! Depressed I try to save myself. Nevertheless it is inside me now. Full of grief, my eyes start to blur. My lungs turn into lava hot fire balls, Coughing like a hag, I dart away. I tug my gas mask on. I don't care where I am headed so long as it is away from this traumatising hell. I emerge. I desperately tear my mask off, grasping for sweet, fresh air. Violently vomiting lumps of my innocent soul, I realise I am safe now.


The brutal gas finally begins to leave my wretched body and I settle. Surprised, I feel a shiver on my back. "Is there someone behind me?" I think to myself. Slowly but silently I turn round "Please God, I beg for your mercy!"... A Hun, a Hun holding his enormous riffle, looking at me with a stone glare. Overwhelmed by dread, numbed by it, I wait. Seconds pass. I am waiting for my end... 


Pola 6B

Street Child - Diary Entry

In Year 5 we have been reading 'Street Child' by Berlie Doherty. We have written diary entries from Jim Jarvis, a Victorian child, who has suffered a series of unfortunate events and is now being forced to live in the workhouse. 

This is an entry from Juvan in 5E.


Friday, 3rd January 1873

Dear Diary,

                  As the days quickly passed by, Ma whispered to leave because she was too ill to sleep in the crooked bed. But the saddest thing is that I can’t see my stricken sisters again although they were a bit annoying. Also I feel very sorry for my mother because she’s sick…

                 So, I know that she has to be respected with… LOVE! So, I will earn 5 shillings for my mum by working so very hard. Even though I’m very stricken, I’ll still try hard to earn a shilling! But, as I walked to the coin factory, I accidentally breathed in carbon dioxide…

From Jim.

Street Child - Diary entry

In Year 5 we have been reading 'Street Child' by Berlie Doherty. We have written diary entries from Jim Jarvis, a Victorian child, who has suffered a series of unfortunate events and is now being forced to live in the workhouse. 

Thursday, 18^th December 1865

Pimlico, London

Dear my cherished and beloved diary,

            I am exceptionally distraught. Terror surrounds my soul like a pack of ravenous wolves. My hope is slowly deceasing and transforming into horror and fear. Happiness has been trapped with long lost memories, desperate to return. Unfortunately, we have been evicted from our only shelter. Why was our landlord so heartless and cruel? Will we ever escape this misery?

            Standing outside the workhouse doors, I was petrified. My legs were like jelly, uncontrollably shaking. All joyful memories of times with my father and sisters are now locked away in my heart. Is this the end? Will my feeble body be able to survive the treacherous, hard workhouse conditions? As I think of my doomed future, I fill with dread. Are all of the terrifying stories true? It is really going to be hell on earth?

            The wailings of the mad people and the yelps of the innocent orphans being whipped fill my ears. I can hear the scraping of cutlery as starving children eat every last scrap of food off their plates. The innocent and frightened faces stare at me through the barred windows as the colossal iron gates get whipped in the wind like the poor, innocent orphans.

            If I survive tonight I will write to you tomorrow diary,

                                                           

                                                 Jim Jarvis

Josie, 5C

L.I.To write a diary entry

                                                                                                                           18th September 1895

Dear Diary,
                   I've had the most terrible day ever!
It all started yesterday when I was given Ma's last shilling. It was brilliant (well I thought it was anyway) and I dashed all the way to the meat pudding shop. When I reached the shop I had to barge my way through the crowd of hungry boys and skinny dogs.

I charged into the warm inside of the shop, clutching the coin in my hand so that the metal grew warm. Mrs Hodder bit into the coin to make sure it was real and then I asked her for the biggest juiciest pie she had. Eventually it was ready and she took it from the oven, handed it to me and I was off, darting through the crowd. All of the boys and dogs chased after me but I lost them in the dark, shadowy alleys and soon I was home. I was very tempted to eat it all myself but I know my sisters would have been angry so I didn't.

We shared the pie out and it was delicious. I thought it was all fine to have pie but the next morning I realised why it wasn't such a good thing...

I was half asleep when suddenly the door slammed open waking everyone up with a jump. It was Mr Spink asking for his rent for the tiny room we all lived in. When he realised we'd spent Ma's last shilling on a pie he made us leave. We packed our things (I only had two) and then left. I'm not sure what's going to happen now. I'm scared.

From,

Jim

By James, 5G

In Year Six we have been learning about the features of poetry. We wrote poems based on our theme, which is World War One. What features can you spot?

Ypres, by Tyler (6B)

Livid with anxiety,

We enter destruction valley,

The ferocious bullet penetrates my body,

Like gas clutching your lungs.

Eternal rows of death,

Like a river of emotion,

It’s an abyss of anguish,

As we hover, rise, like angels.

“Bombs!”

The bombs let fall,

Disrupting everything in their path,

Ypres has been obliterated.

A pernicious, belligerent battlefield,

Dynamising, bombs shattering,

Seas of everlong poison,

“Gas! Gas! Quick, boys,”

Splattering soldiers, struggling to survive.




Ypres, by Josh (6B)

Livid with fear,
Wounded soldiers enter destruction valley.
Explosions everywhere,
As surreptitious as a serpent.

A pernicious, belligerent battlefield
Dynamising bombs shattering
Seas of everlong poison.
"Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!"
Spluttering soldiers struggling to survive.

A cacophony of noise.
War, obscene as death,
A giant storybook filled with corruption,
Fatigued, blood-shot men trudge in horror.

Soldiers stumble,
Guns roar like lions,
Souls are ghosts rising from the dead.
"Help! Help!" cries the soldier,
His lungs throbbing.

 

6F's WW1 class poem (first stanza)

After reading and unpicking some WW1 poetry by Wilfred Owen, we used our knowledge of metaphor, alliteration and personification to shared-write the first stanza of a class poem about a WW1 battlefield. See what you think:

Lurking, the mist's malevolent hug
Conceals and chills their weary bodies.
Whipped and bitten by the wind;
Paralysed by the roar of relentless shells
They suffer.

6R's war poetry

In Year 6 we have been immersing ourselves in our topic for this term, the First World War. Having studied some images of battles and battlefields, and read and analysed a range of war poetry, 6R had a go at writing our own. Our first poem was created by taking ideas, words and phrases from different pairs of children and fitting these together: something of a patchwork poem! It is a descriptive poem about the battlefields post-war, in which we focussed on using personification effectively. Our second poem is more of a 'jigsaw' poem, about a battlefield before, during and after the war. The class was divided into groups, each of which wrote one stanza with a particular focus in terms of the effect on the reader. Can you work out what each group's aim was? In addition, we would love your ideas for titles!


Jet-black larks, once bringers of hope, swirl above the now-silent land.
Poppies of blood gaze mournfully at the tempestuous sky,
No longer filled with the poison of the conflict below.
They stand guard - sorrowfully, faithfully - where soldiers fell.
Bending in the whistling wind, the blood-red glow kisses the graves
Of Flanders: the final resting place of too many lost ones,
Paying its respects,
Weeping as quietly as a dead man's final breath,
To the fallen heroes.





A cloak of silence swathes the solitary field,

Desolate hearts fear for the future;

Fear the destruction about to be witnessed.

Guns are being loaded

To penetrate souls.

BANG! "To your positions!"

Squabbling soldiers heave themselves over the door to death

As ominous clouds unleash a crash of thunder

Over the squalid, squelching battlefield.

 

"Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!"

Too late:

Soldiers writhe in agony,

Bitter froth spurts from their hanging mouths

As they utter their final, desperate words,

Engulfed in a misty, green sea.

 

Soldiers sent with a destiny of death

Is it sweet to die on strange soil?

Is it fitting to die in pain?

Innocent children sent to the slaughter

Men with mothers, wives and sons

Will never see the light of day again.

 

Crumpled, torn poppies litter

The obliterated field of despair.

Larks, once bringers of hope, circle the serene sky

Waiting, watching, for the next wave of death.

Blood filled, the poppies kiss the putrid mud,

Each torn stem holds an untold story

Of the Great War, in Flanders Fields.

Welcome back!

Welcome back to the Grove Academy! This half term's learning focus for our blog is writing, and our wonderful wordsmiths have already been producing some cracking compositions. We are really excited to share these with you over the next few weeks, and the children love receiving feedback so comments are very welcome. Before you submit one, please take a few seconds to read the blog rules below.

 

In Year 5, our theme for this half term is Victorians, and we will be writing diary entries, narratives and narrative poetry in this context. Meanwhile, Year 6 will be writing war poetry and narratives, focussing on creating atmospheric texts and character descriptions, all related to the First World War.

 

Keep checking back for regular updates!

The Year 5 and 6 Team