domingo, 26 de febrero de 2012

Fine-tuning our writing

Embellishing and finishing a story
It was at the crack of dawn, earlier than usual for the just retired Martin. After a whole life rising at six to go to work, he would these days opt to be at ease in bed until the sun had risen. But that day he was overcome with a weird gut feeling; he wrapped up, got hold of one of his favourite books and proceeded to read it by his chamber window sill. A flock of thrushes were cheerfully chirping outside, in his very well cared for back garden, mainly all over the magnificent old as the hills maple, which Martin’s great grandfather had grown, as stated by his family archives. All of a sudden, there was a cutting painful silence, such an intense silence that Martin was profoundly influenced. He raised himself from his wood rocking chair and looked around through the window. Right below the maple there was a skinny boy, not older than ten, completely dressed in rags, poring over a big book. The scene was so incredibly unbelievable that Martin gave his eyes a rub. For quite some time, he gaped at the little boy, who was profoundly engrossed in his book, as if that was his invariable spot for reading, a hidden corner of his own garden.  Then, Martin crept carefully down the stairs, opened the crystal glass door slowly onto his dearest garden, and again creeping carefully so not to distract the kid, he drew near the ancient maple. Bending towards the cold ground, he intriguingly asked: “It really seems a great book, doesn’t it?” For the first time, the little boy put down his book and looked around and, shyly breaking into a charming smile, gave him an answer: “This is the book of my life.” ……………………
 Martin was really astonished. “How can anyone so young have a book of his life?” he wondered. Curious as he still was, he asked the little boy to read him aloud a few lines. He went on: “A flock of thrushes were cheerfully chirping outside, in his very well cared for back garden, mainly all over the magnificent old as the hills maple, which Martin’s great grandfather had grown, as stated by his family archives.” “What the hell is this? Who are you? What do you want?” All of a sudden, the thrushes stopped their merry chirp and a strong wind blew up some sand into his eyes. When he could open them, not only there was no wind, but he could hear the musical chirp of the thrushes again. However, to his own surprise, he was sitting on his old rocking chair and there was no sign of no one under the old maple tree.

domingo, 12 de febrero de 2012

In the mood for Dickens?

Oxford University Press - In the mood for Dickens?




February 7, 1812
Charles John Huffam Dickens, the greatest novelist of the 19th century, was born in Portsmouth...
February 1, 2012
Oxford is proud to celebrate the 200th Anniversary of Charles Dickens's birth with a stunning selection of activities, perfect for use in the classroom or for
self-study.

  • Have fun playing with the 'I Love Dickens' game.
  • 'Feel like an Artist!' and draw the story of his books.
  • Discover more about his life and his work with exciting Q&A activities and crosswords.
  • Enjoy reading a choice selection of shrewd quotes.
  • Satisfy your Dickens-related curiosity in the 'Did you know?' section.
And there's more... Be a director or an actor for a day, the choice is yours!
There are tips, advice, and scenes from a selection of our Dickens titles from Oxford's Dominoes series for you and your class to act out on stage!
Don't forget to send us your videos if you want to share your experience on the web and have the chance to win a set of Oxford Bookworms and Dominoes readers.
Visit this new website and enjoy Dickens Oxford graded readers more than ever!
So, are you in the mood for Dickens? Say yes and join in now...
 
ENTER



So come and learn more about Dickens , enjoy his work, and be ready for a surprise or two as you discover the fascinating truth of his life story... hand in hand with Oxford.

Celebrating Dicken's bicentenary

Even though I’m not very good at writing poetry
 I’ve tried this acrostic poem with Dickens’s Great Expectations in mind.
Sometimes it may be confusing or lacking sense
 But I’ve tried to have rhythming pairs at the end of each verse

Glorious days may be coming
Radiant as the past ones and glaring
Endless nights for someone’s fun
Anxiously waiting for the sun
Twisted with pain in the twilit, the swan.
Eager for a glimpse of sunrise, we waited
X-ray eyes staring at us with hatred
Proudly swinging our own hips
Entwining our minds, the incoming tide rips
Chaos, disorder, confusion and then, the silence
Tormented by remorse, by our own inner thoughts
Attached to the material world, hence
Tick, tock” … echoing in the distance
Isolated in our grief, we have no chance
Oblivious to our surroundings, to dangers
Nothing more to think, nothing more but strangers,
Simply making us suffer beyond endurance.

Dicken's recreation of Great Expectations

Great Expectations

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister - Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, "Also Georgiana Wife of the Above," I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine - who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle - I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.

Being an innocent infant, I only learned about my father that he was a carpenter, just a plain ordinary carpenter. Reasonably honest, though. As honest as you could expect a man to be in a world where the whole class drift was upwards and there was no reason to suppose it would ever stop being so; where money could buy education, accent and fine clothes – all attributes of a gentleman; and where the cruel and hard order of commerce prevailed over all the things on Earth; and - who knows? - maybe over all the things situated at the other end of my own existence, too. I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly significant about this matter of affairs.

 
There is no doubt whatever about the fact that my character was also affected by being grown up solitary in the Marshes – a funereal, drab, flat, wet country, intersected with numerous hillocks, gates and dikes and with scattered cattle feeding on it; and right beyond me the deep dark winding river; and further away in the distance the immense, wild, rough, menacing sea. For good or for evil, I had nothing before me. And from the beginning it was a clear fact that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and that I was privileged to see the ghosts and spirits of my dead parents and brothers; both these gifts inevitably connected, as it was believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born orphans.

jueves, 2 de febrero de 2012

a little bit of walking

Have you learnt all the verbs Emilio gave us? If your answer is yes, I'm sure you're ready for more. Ready, Steady, Go! If you go to this other link, you will find more activities and resources about the topic of ways of walking. Hope  you like it!

Here you have some activities to practice verbs of walking.

Looking for some more activities I found this beautiful poem. It's worth reading.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Illustrates how people walk in streets like the alphabet. Shows among others the G-Walker, who doesn't look where he's going but says 'Gee, look at that,' the Y-Walker, who says 'Why walk when you can hitch a ride' and the familiar J-Walker.


The Ministry of Silly Walks.This video is also really interesting. And if you're desperate for some laughing this is what you need.