I. Cele konkursu:
1. Zainteresowanie literaturą angielską i anglojęzyczną młodzieży
2. Upowszechnianie literatury anglojęzycznej zarówno klasycznej jak i współczesnej.
3. Przypominanie doskonałych tłumaczeń z języka angielskiego.
4. Podnoszenie kultury słowa młodzieży.
5. Promocja i pomoc utalentowanej językowo i artystycznie młodzieży szkolnej.
6. Stwarzanie warunków do poczucia bliskości z literaturą i kulturą angielską i anglojęzyczną
1. MIESIĄC PRZED TERMINEM KONKURSU UCZNIOWIE OTRZYMUJĄ OD NAUCZYCIELI WYBÓR WIERSZY.
2. NALEŻY WYBRAĆ JEDEN I NAUCZYĆ SIĘ GO NA PAMIĘĆ.
3. UCZESTNICY KONKURSU POJEDYNCZO WCHODZĄ DO SALI I PRZED
DWUOSOBOWĄ KOMISJĄ RECYTUJĄ WYBRANY PRZEZ SIEBIE UTWÓR.
4. W TRAKCIE RECYTACJI NIE WOLNO PATRZEĆ W TEKST UTWORU
5. PRZY OCENIE POD UWAGĘ BRANE SĄ NASTĘPUJĄCE ASPEKTY:
· STOPIEŃ OPANOWANIA TEKSTU ( 0-20 PKT)
· INTERPRETACJA (O-20 PKT)
· WYMOWA (0-20 PKT)
UCZNIOWIE OTRZYMUJĄ OCENY ZA RECYTACJĘ
DODATKOWO, LAUREACI KONKURSU OTRZYMAJĄ DYPLOMY.
WYNIKI KONKURSU BĘDĄ WYWIESZONE W PRZECIĄGU TYGODNIA NA
W PRZYPADKU BARDZO WYRÓWNANEGO POZIOMU MOŻLIWA JEST
DOGRYWKA, A JEJ ZASADY USTALANE SĄ INDYWIDUALNIE Z
UDZIAŁ W KONKURSIE TRAKTOWANY JEST JAKO PRACA DODATKOWA
NA OCENĘ CELUJĄCĄ NA KONIEC DANEGO SEMESTRU.
Opracowały: Wanda Kurkus Joanna Naparty
zestaw wierszy na rok 2016/17
Be Glad Your Nose Is on Your Face Jack Prelutsky
Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.
Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you’d be forced to smell your feet.
Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.
Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.
Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place—
be glad your nose is on your face!
Funeral Blues W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Messy Room Shel Silverstein
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater’s been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or–
Huh? You say it’s mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!
Sick Shel Silverstein,
“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”