5 – 6 класс, 7 – 8 класс, 9 – 11 класс.
Для конкурса подобраны аутентичные тексты на английском, французском, немецком языках.
К участию принимаются переводы, не публиковавшиеся на русском языке ранее.
Положение о городском открытом конкурсе переводов
с иностранного языка
1. Общие положения
1.1
Настоящее положение устанавливает порядок организации и
проведения городского конкурса переводов
с иностранного языка (далее – Конкурс).
1.2
Учредителем Конкурса является управление образования
администрации города Кемерово. Организационное сопровождение Конкурса
обеспечивает МБОУ ДПО «Научно-методический центр».
1.3 Конкурс
переводов с иностранного языка (английского, французского, немецкого) является
конкурсом для учащихся 5 – 11 классов, изучающих иностранные языки, и
проводится с целью повышения мотивации к изучению иностранных языков.
1.4 Задачи
Конкурса: развитие у учащихся интереса к иностранным языкам;
популяризация иностранных языков; развитие творческих способностей учащихся;
знакомство с культурой стран изучаемого языка; поддержка инициативных
преподавателей в их стремлении сделать обучение иностранному языку
увлекательным и успешным.
2. Оргкомитет Конкурса
2.1. Для
организационно-методического обеспечения проведения Конкурса создается
оргкомитет.
2.2. Оргкомитет Конкурса:
– определяет
условия и сроки проведения Конкурса;
– размещает информацию о проведении и итогах Конкурса
на официальных ресурсах МБОУ ДПО «НМЦ» в сети интернет;
– определяет требования к оформлению представляемых
материалов.
3. Порядок
проведения Конкурса
3.1. Конкурс проводится с 16.09.2019 по 31.10.2019 в возрастных группах 5 – 6 класс, 7 – 8
класс, 9 – 11 класс.
3.2. Для конкурса подобраны аутентичные тексты на английском, французском,
немецком языках.
3.3. На конкурс принимаются тексты по следующим номинациям:
- проза
- поэзия
3.4. Каждый
участник имеет право направить в адрес оргкомитета только один вариант
работы в одну или обе номинации по любому из рабочих языков
конкурса.
3.5. К участию принимаются переводы, не публиковавшиеся на
русском языке ранее.
3.6 Тексты для перевода в
Приложении 3 (английский), Приложении 4 (французский), Приложении 5 (немецкий).
4. Требования
к переводу и оформлению конкурсных работ
4.1.
Для участия в Конкурсе необходимо на адрес электронной почты
nmc_conference@mail.ru отправить следующие документы:
·
Заявка
на участие в конкурсе (приложение 1);
·
Конкурсная
работа (перевод предложенного отрывка текста, оформленного согласно требованиям).
4.2. Критерии оценивания конкурсных работ представлены в приложении 2.
4.3. Все
материалы предоставляются в печатном виде.
4.4.
Требования к печатным материалам:
·
шрифт - Times New Roman, начертание - обычный; кегль
- 14, выравнивание - по ширине, межстрочный интервал – 1,5.
·
в левом верхнем углу первой страницы: фамилия,
имя, отчество автора, место учебы с указанием класса, город, контактный
телефон, e-mail;
·
файл с текстом конкурсной работы должен быть
назван по фамилии автора с указанием номинации и языка перевода и расширением
имени файла .doс (например, Иванова_проза_англ.doc)
4.5.
С 01 ноября по 15 ноября жюри будет проводить оценивание работ участников
конкурса. Итоги конкурса будут опубликованы не позднее 18 ноября 2019 г. на
сайте МБОУ ДПО «Научно-методический центр».
4.6. Материалы, оформленные с нарушением настоящего
Положения и представленные позднее установленных сроков, к рассмотрению не
принимаются. Представленные на конкурс материалы возврату не подлежат.
5. Подведение итогов Конкурса
5.1. Победителям и лауреатам вручаются Дипломы.
5.2. Участники Конкурса получают сертификат
участника.
5.3. Апелляции по итогам Конкурса
не предусмотрены. Оценочные листы не выдаются.
6. Контакты
Тексты
для перевода
Поэзия
June
by Elaine Goodale
For stately trees in rich array,
For sunlight all the happy day,
For blossoms radiant and rare,
For skies when daylight closes,
For joyous, clear, outpouring song
From birds that all the green wood throng,
For all things young, and bright, and fair,
We praise thee, Month of Roses!
For blue, blue skies of summer calm,
For fragrant odors breathing balm,
For quiet, cooling shades where oft
The weary head reposes,
For brooklets babbling thro' the fields
Where Earth her choicest treasures yields,
For all things tender, sweet and soft,
We love thee, Month of Roses!
George Gordon Byron
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave.
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
Accords not with the tree-born soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultures lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks Hove,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this - again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
If I could tell you…
by Wystan Hugh Auden
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when the blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Life Harmonies
Let no man pray that he know
not sorrow,
Let no soul ask to be free
from pain,
For the gall of to-day is
the sweet of to-morrow,
And the moment’s loss is the
lifetime’s gain.
Through want of a thing does its worth redouble,
Through hunger's pangs does the feast content,
And only the heart that has harbored trouble,
Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.
Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics
Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife,
For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies,
Are found in the minor strains of life.
Carol
Rumens
Unplayed
Music
We stand apart in the crowd
that slaps its filled glasses
on the green piano, quivering
her shut heart.
The tavern, hung with bottles,
winks and sways
like a little ship, smuggling
its soul through darkness.
There is an arm flung jokily
round my shoulders,
and clouds of words and smoke
thicken between us.
I watch you watching me. All
else is blindness.
Outside the long street glimmers
pearl.
Our revellers’ heat steams
into the cold
as fresh snow, crisping and
slithering
underfoot, witches us back to
childhood.
Oh night of ice and Schnapps,
moonshine and stars,
how lightly two of us have
fallen in step
behind the crowd! The shadowy
white landscape
gathers our few words into its
secret.
All night in the small grey
room
I’m listening for you, for the
new music
waiting only to be played; all
night I hear nothing
but wind over the snow, my own
heart beating.
Television
Roald
Dahl
The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.
The
Pig
Roald
Dahl
In
England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, 'By gum, I've got the answer! '
'They want my bacon slice by slice
'To sell at a tremendous price!
'They want my tender juicy chops
'To put in all the butcher's shops!
'They want my pork to make a roast
'And that's the part'll cost the most!
'They want my sausages in strings!
'They even want my chitterlings!
'The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
'That is the reason for my life! '
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great peace of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grisly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
'I had a fairly powerful hunch
'That he might have me for his lunch.
'And so, because I feared the worst,
'I thought I'd better eat him first.'
Проза
The Little Gingerbread Man
by Carol
Moore
Once upon a time there was an
old woman who loved baking gingerbread. She would bake gingerbread cookies,
cakes, houses and gingerbread people, all decorated with chocolate and
peppermint, caramel candies and colored frosting.
She lived with her husband on
a farm at the edge of town. The sweet spicy smell of gingerbread brought
children skipping and running to see what would be offered that day.
Unfortunately the children
gobbled up the treats so fast that the old woman had a hard time keeping her
supply of flour and spices to continue making the batches of gingerbread.
Sometimes she suspected little hands of having reached through her kitchen
window because gingerbread pieces and cookies would disappear. One time a whole
gingerbread house vanished mysteriously. She told her husband, "Those
naughty children are at it again. They don't understand all they have to do is
knock on the door and I'll give them my gingerbread treats."
One day she made a special
batch of gingerbread men because they were extra big. Unfortunately for the
last gingerbread man she ran out of batter and he was half the size of the
others.
She decorated the gingerbread
men with care, each having socks, shirt and pants of different colors. When it
came to the little gingerbread man she felt sorry for him and gave him more
color than the others. "It doesn't matter he's small," she thought,
"He'll still be tasty."
WHITE FANG
by J. London
Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen
waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering
of frost, and they seemed to lean toward each other, black and ominous, in the
fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was
desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it
was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a
laughter more terrible than any sadness -- a laughter that was mirthless as the
smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness
of infallibility. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity
laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the
savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.
But there was life, abroad in the land and
defiant. Down the frozen waterway toiled a string of wolfish dogs. Their
bristly fur was rimed with frost. Their breath froze in the air as it left
their mouths, spouting forth in spumes of vapor that settled upon the hair of
their bodies and formed into crystals of frost. Leather harness was on the
dogs, and leather traces attached them to a sled which dragged along behind.
The sled was without runners. It was made of stout birch-bark, and its full
surface rested on the snow. The front end of the sled was turned up, like a
scroll, in order to force down and under the bore of soft snow that surged like
a wave before it. On the sled, securely lashed, was a long and narrow oblong
box. There were other things on the sled -- blankets, an axe, and a coffee-pot
and frying-pan; but prominent, occupying most of the space, was the long and
narrow oblong box.
John Galsworthy «The Forsyte Saga»
Young Jolyon, whose
circumstances were not those of a Forsyte, found at times a difficulty in
sparing the money needful for those country jaunts and researches into Nature,
without having prosecuted which no watercolour artist ever puts brush to paper.
He was frequently, in fact,
obliged to take his colour-box into the Botanical Gardens, and there, on his
stool, in the shade of a monkey-puzzler or in the lee of some India-rubber
plant, he would spend long hours sketching.
An Art critic who had recently
been looking at his work had delivered himself as follows
"In a way your drawings
are very good; tone and colour, in some of them certainly quite a feeling for
Nature. But, you see, they're so scattered; you'll never get the public to look
at them. Now, if you'd taken a definite subject, such as 'London by Night,' or
'The Crystal Palace in the Spring,' and made a regular series, the public would
have known at once what they were looking at. I can't lay too much stress upon
that. All the men who are making great names in Art, like Crum Stone or
Bleeder, are making them by avoiding the unexpected; by specializing and
putting their works all in the same pigeon-hole, so that the public know pat
once where to go. And this stands to reason, for if a man's a collector he
doesn't want people to smell at the canvas to find out whom his pictures are
by; he wants them to be able to say at once, 'A capital Forsyte!' It is all the
more important for you to be careful to choose a subject that they can lay hold
of on the spot, since there's no very marked originality in your style."
The words bore good fruit with
young Jolyon; they were contrary to all that he believed in, to all that he
theoretically held good in his Art, but some strange, deep instinct moved him
against his will to turn them to profit.
He discovered therefore one
morning that an idea had come to him for making a series of watercolour
drawings of London. How the idea had arisen he could not tell; and it was not
till the following year, when he had completed and sold them at a very fair
price, that in one of his impersonal moods, he found himself able to recollect
the Art critic, and to discover in his own achievement another proof that he
was a Forsyte.
He decided to commence with
the Botanical Gardens, where he had already made so many studies, and chose the
little artificial pond, sprinkled now with an autumn shower of red and yellow
leaves, for though the gardeners longed to sweep them off, they could not reach
them with their brooms. The rest of the gardens they swept bare enough,
removing every morning Nature's rain of leaves; piling them in heaps, whence
from slow fires rose the sweet, acrid smoke that, like the cuckoo's note for
spring, the scent of lime trees for the summer, is the true emblem of the fall.
The gardeners' tidy souls could not abide the gold and green and russet pattern
on the grass. The gravel paths must lie unstained, ordered, methodical, without
knowledge of the realities of life, nor of that slow and beautiful decay which
flings crowns underfoot to star the earth with fallen glories, whence, as the
cycle rolls, will leap again wild spring.
Thus each leaf that fell was
marked from the moment when it fluttered a good-bye and dropped, slow turning,
from its twig.
But on that little pond the
leaves floated in peace, and praised Heaven with their hues, the sunlight
haunting over them.
And so young Jolyon found
them.
A Father And His Son
Jordan
There was a small child who
was brought up by his father. His father was a highly successful and extremely
bright business man. He was about 50 years old with dark brown hair and deep
brown eyes. He was a very neat man but he rarely smiled. He was strict,
impatient, quick with anger and very passionate. These attributes all
contributed to his great success in business life, but at the same time the
same qualities led him become a not very pleasant father. He drove the newest
Mercedes and had the fanciest suits. He was incredibly wealthy. As he traveled
a lot he didn't spend a lot of time with his son. But this boy was compensated
with expensive presents and private schooling. This was the way his father
expressed his love for him. The son got used to getting everything he wished
for.
When he turned 21 he was
getting ready to graduate college. For many months he had admired a beautiful
black sports car in a dealer's showroom and knowing his father could well
afford it, he told him that was all he wanted. He went to see the car every day
for weeks. He took the car for a test drive, he smelled the leather seats,
imagined buying it and taking it home for the first time. He took pictures of
it and put them all out on his wall.
As Graduation Day approached,
the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. He was full
of excitement like a little child. He had absolutely no doubt of getting what
he wished for. Finally after days of waiting impatiently, on the morning of his
graduation his father called him into his private study. He sat him down on a
designer brown leather chair and looked deep into his son's eyes and said:
"I am very proud to have such a fine son and for the first time he said:
"I love you". His son not even hearing the words waited impatiently
for his present. After all, he was used to expensive presents but his father
expressing his feelings was unknown for him. Finally, the father handed his son
a beautiful wrapped gift box. The son held his breath back while quickly
opening the box. He had his dream car floating before his eyes. As he opened
the box he found a book called "Put Your Dream to the Test". He
was disappointed, almost shocked. He threw the book on the floor. Angrily he
raised his voice at his father and said: "With all your money you give me
a book?" and stormed out of the house, leaving the book behind. He moved
out of the house immediately and went on his own way.
Many years passed and the
young man was very successful in business just like his father. But business
was not all he took after his father. He was as strict and impatient with his
own children as his father was with him. He had a beautiful home somewhere in
the countryside.
One day the man realized his
father was very old and thought perhaps he should go see him. He had not seen
him since that graduation day. They hadn't even spoken a word since then. The
father hadn't even met his grandchildren. Although the son decided to contact
his father he kept putting it off. Many times he walked to the phone, took it
up, sat down on the white leather sofa in his living room, looked at his wife
for support and dialed holding his breath back and shaking all over. But before
the phone could ring he hung up. This went on for weeks until one day he received
a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his
possessions to him. He needed to go home immediately and take care of things.
When he arrived at his
father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He went into his
father's study where they last spoke and thought about the last words he heard
from his father. He began to search his father's important papers, and in one
of his drawers he found the still new book, just as he had left it years ago.
He sat down on the same chair he was sitting those years before and recollected
his memories of the situation that had separated them. With tears rolling down
his face, he read the title: “Put Your Dreams to the Test’. Then he opened the
book and began to turn the pages. After the third page he saw a hole in the
book with a car key in it. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer
who had the black sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his
graduation, and the words…
"WITH LOVE TO MY PRECIOUS
SON WHO MADE ME SO PROUD TODAY".
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