If Once You Have Slept On An Island
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Это международный конкурс, который проводится совместно с Минским государственным лингвистическим университетом в апреле этого года.
В рамках конкурса предлагаем вам проявить себя в четырех номинациях:
I - BEST KNOWLEDGE OF PHONETIC NORMS AND RULES
II - BEST POETRY RECITATION
III - BEST PROSE RECITATION
IV - BEST SPONTANEOUS SPEAKING
Победители и призеры конкурса награждаются сертификатами и призами за I, II и III места в соответствующих четырех номинациях
Количество участников от каждого вуза не более 30 человек
С нетерпением ждем ваших заявок на участие до 1 апреля на phonetics141@linguanet.ru
Оргкомитет
Подробнее о номинациях
Участие в первой номинации обязательно для всех конкурсантов. Далее вы можете принять участие в одной, двух или всех трех оставшихся номинациях.
I Владение фонетическими нормами и правилами английского языка
Проходит в формате онлайн-тестирования в заранее предложенное время по ссылке.
II Поэтическая декламация / III Прозаическая декламация
Для участия во второй и третьей номинациях конкурсанты готовят видеозаписи[1]* своих выступлений. Выбрать поэзию и прозу для декламации наизусть можно только из списка. Видеозаписи, выходящие за рамки предложенных в Приложении материалов, не принимаются.
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IV Спонтанное высказывание на заданную тему
Четверная номинация проводится в формате онлайн-конференции в заранее предложенное время по ссылке. Прослушивание каждого конкурсанта членами жюри проходит индивидуально. Методом случайного выбора вам будет предложена тема выступления, которую нужно раскрыть в течение 2-3 минут без предварительной подготовки.
- Для максимальной объективности произносительные навыки конкурсантов будет оценивать жюри другого вуза.
Организация и проведение конкурса
1. Для участия в конкурсе нужно до 1 апреля отправить заполненную заявку на phonetics141@linguanet.ru.
После успешной регистрации мы сообщим точные даты прохождения номинаций, а также торжественной церемонии награждения.
2. Подведение итогов конкурса проводится отдельно в каждой номинации.
- Торжественная церемония награждения проходит в онлайн-формате.
- Информация об итогах проведения конкурса размещается на официальных сайтах вузов-участников.
3. В Приложении можно найти заявку на участие, поэзию и прозу для декламаций, а также критерии оценивания выступлений.
4. Любые организационные вопросы можно задать по почте phonetics141@linguanet.ru.
Приложение 1
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ЗАЯВКА НА УЧАСТИЕ В ФОНЕТИЧЕСКОЙ ОЛИМПИАДЕ
ПО АНГЛИЙСКОМУ ЯЗЫКУ
| Информация о конкурсанте | |
| ФИО | |
| ВУЗ | |
| Факультет | |
| Курс | |
| Группа | |
| Номинации, в которых вы желаете принять участие (нужное подчеркнуть) Вы можете участвовать в любом количестве номинаций! | |
| I - Владение фонетическими нормами и правилами английского языка | обязательно |
| II - Поэтическая декламация | да / нет |
| III - Прозаическая декламация | да / нет |
| IV - Спонтанное высказывание | да / нет |
| Контактные данные | |
| Электронная почта | |
| Телефон | |
Заполняя заявку на участие, вы даете согласие на обработку указанных персональных данных для их последующего сбора, систематизации и использования в целях проведения конкурса.
Приложение 2
ПОЭЗИЯ ДЛЯ ДЕКЛАМАЦИИ
Sonnet 18
By William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
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So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Sonnet 66
By William Shakespeare
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry:
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Sonnet 90
By William Shakespeare
Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of Fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah do not, when my heart has scaped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of Fortune’s might;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.
Sea-Fever
By John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-
gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
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And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
If Once You Have Slept On An Island
By Rachal Field
If once you have slept on an island
You'll never be quite the same;
You may look as you looked the day before
And go by the same old name,
You may bustle about in street and shop
You may sit at home and sew,
But you'll see blue water and wheeling gulls
Wherever your feet may go.
You may chat with the neighbors of this and that
And close to your fire keep,
But you'll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell
And tides beat through your sleep.
Oh! you won't know why and you can't say how
Such a change upon you came,
But once you have slept on an island,
You'll never be quite the same.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
By William Butler Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Winter-Time
By Robert Louis Stevenson
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
Winter-Time
By Robert Louis Stevenson
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
If
By Rudyard Kipling
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
The Raven
By Edgar Allan Po
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Приложение 3
ПРОЗА ДЛЯ ДЕКЛАМАЦИИ
Desiderata
By Max Ehrman
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Never give up
When you show courage in the face of adversity, you change your life and others.
The most provocative people in the world are the ones who won’t settle for average and have triumphed through adversity. We are most inspired by people who have experienced difficulty and never, ever give up.
Luck is great, but life is meant to be experienced. Sometimes the only way out of stress is through it; face struggle to overcome challenges in life. Many times struggle happens to help teach us a lesson. We can either learn from that lesson or deny it.
From an evolutionary perspective the human mind’s main goal is to keep you safe. Sometimes this leads to self sabotage as it’s just easier to stay in your comfort zone and avoid risk. However, great things never come from mediocrity. Quit settling for average and strive for extraordinary.
(from https://www.idoinspire.com/blog/bid/43449/never-give-up-on-your-dream-success-is-around-the-corner)
The Man of Property
By John Galsworthy
On arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the view.
“That ought to come down,” he said, pointing to the oak-tree.
“You think so? You think that with the tree there you don’t get enough view for your money?”
Again James eyed him suspiciously – this young man had a peculiar way of putting things: “Well,” he said, with a perplexed, nervous emphasis, “I don’t see what you want with a tree.”
“It shall come down to-morrow,” said Bosinney.
James was alarmed. “Oh,” he said, “don’t go saying I said it was to come down! I know nothing about it!”
“No?”
James went on in a fluster: “Why, what should I know about it? It’s nothing to do with me! You do it on your own responsibility.”
“You’ll allow me to mention your name?”
James grew more and more alarmed: “I don’t know what you want mentioning my name for,” he muttered; “you’d better leave the tree alone. It’s not your tree!”
He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. They entered the house.
The Graveyard Book
By Neil Gaiman
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.
The knife had a handle of polished black bone, and a blade finer and sharper than any razor. If it sliced you, you might not even know you had been cut, not immediately.
The knife had done almost everything it was brought to that house to do, and both the blade and the handle were wet.
The street door was still open, just a little, where the knife and the man who held it had slipped in, and wisps of nighttime mist slithered and twined into the house through the open door.
The man Jack paused on the landing. With his left hand he pulled a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his black coat, and with it he wiped off the knife and his gloved right hand which had been holding it; then he put the handkerchief away. The hunt was almost over. He had left the woman in her bed, the man on the bedroom floor, the older child in her brightly colored bedroom, surrounded by toys and half-finished models. That only left the little one, a baby barely a toddler, to take care of. One more and his task would be done.
He flexed his fingers. The man Jack was, above all things, a professional, or so he told himself, and he would not allow himself to smile until the job was completed.
His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he wore black leather gloves of the thinnest lambskin.
The toddler’s room was at the very top of the house. The man Jack walked up the stairs, his feet silent on the carpeting. Then he pushed open the attic door, and he walked in. His shoes were black leather, and they were polished to such a shine that they looked like dark mirrors: you could see the moon reflected in them, tiny and half full.
The real moon shone through the casement window. Its light was not bright, and it was diffused by the mist, but the man Jack would not need much light. The moonlight was enough. It would do.
He could make out the shape of the child in the crib, head and limbs and torso.
The crib had high, slatted sides to prevent the child from getting out. Jack leaned over, raised his right hand, the one holding the knife, and he aimed for the chest…
…and then he lowered his hand. The shape in the crib was a teddy bear. There was no child.
Coraline
By Neil Gaiman
The day after they moved in, Coraline went exploring.
She explored the garden. It was a big garden: at the very back was an old tennis court, but no one in the house played tennis and the fence around the court had holes in it and the net had mostly rotted away; there was an old rose garden, filled with stunted, flyblown rosebushes; there was a rockery that was all rocks; there was a fairy ring, made of squidgy brown toadstools which smelled dreadful if you accidentally trod on them.
There was also a well. On the first day Coraline’s family moved in, Miss Spink and Miss Forcible made a point of telling Coraline how dangerous the well was, and they warned her to be sure she kept away from it. So Coraline set off to explore for it, so that she knew where it was, to keep away from it properly.
She found it on the third day, in an overgrown meadow beside the tennis court, behind a clump of trees—a low brick circle almost hidden in the high grass. The well had been covered up by wooden boards, to stop anyone falling in. There was a small knothole in one of the boards, and Coraline spent an afternoon dropping pebbles and acorns through the hole and waiting, and counting, until she heard the plop as they hit the water far below.
Coraline also explored for animals. She found a hedgehog, and a snakeskin (but no snake), and a rock that looked just like a frog, and a toad that looked just like a rock.
There was also a haughty black cat, who sat on walls and tree stumps and watched her but slipped away if ever she went over to try to play with it.
That was how she spent her first two weeks in the house—exploring the garden and the grounds.
Her mother made her come back inside for dinner and for lunch. And Coraline had to make sure she dressed up warm before she went out, for it was a very cold summer that year; but go out she did, exploring, every day until the day it rained, when Coraline had to stay inside.
“What should I do?” asked Coraline.
“Read a book,” said her mother. “Watch a video. Play with your toys. Go and pester Miss Spink or Miss Forcible, or the crazy old man upstairs.”
“No,” said Coraline. “I don’t want to do those things. I want to explore.”
“I don’t really mind what you do,” said Coraline’s mother, “as long as you don’t make a mess.”
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