我們很多會員都參加了我們和Children’s Poetry Bookshelf為全國英詩日2008舉辦的老負鼠英詩創作比賽。
When my Mom is Working
作者： Max Kondziolka，八歲，國家：烏克蘭
What colour is a night?
What colour is a day?
Both are black
if my Mom is away.
I am just eight,
I am not ten,
But I understand
She has to work –
to provide the family well.
What colour is a day?
What colour is a night?
When my Mom comes back –
Both are bright.
作者： Cyril Kumaar，八歲，國家：中國
I am a computer, I work too quick
E-mail and Internet, an easy click.
Tickety Tickety Tick
If you touch me, I’m so smooth,
If you punch me, I’ll blow
If you clean me, I’ll glow
I’m like your assistant.
When I’m happy, I give you a Beep
When something goes wrong, I go Boop.
That’s all I do.
A Fisherman’s Tale
There is a fisherman, who gets up at the crack of dawn.
Out of the house and on his lawn.
Feeds his goat,
And takes out his boat.
Watching the moon set –
In the lake he throws his net.
Hoping to get a fish,
Not to land on his dish,
But to sell it in the market.
Twelve fishes a day is his target.
All day he does sail
Come storm or hale.
Every day he gets only a pound,
But he does not complain or make a sound.
He returns home at seven,
Which is his heaven.
His wife gives him ale,
Listening to his morning’s tale.
Then on his rough hands she gives him a kiss
Although it smells only of fish.
作者：Tudor Cristian Pop，十一歲，國家：羅馬尼亞
The photographer takes photos,
Photos of animals:
A lion, a dog,
A tiger and a frog.
The little photographer
And the beautiful kids
Of very old trees.
The photographer is at the seaside.
He sees a beautiful butterfly.
He takes a photo of the beach,
Then of a little red fish.
Ayhan works a lot,
In a repair work shop.
He doesn’t want to work,
He wants to play,
He wants to go to school.
He misses mum’s kisses,
In the morning.
Two little brothers he has.
He dreams of being the Captain of a very big ship.
Bakers bake bread for people
Because people like fresh bread and cakes.
They wake up early in the morning
To knead the dough and make good bread.
It is very hot in the baker’s
It smells of vanilla and sugar.
The bakers sing while they knead,
Thinking of the joy of children.0
我們很多會員都參加了我們和Children's Poetry Bookshelf為全國英詩日2009舉辦的老負鼠英詩創作比賽。
得獎的英詩都是由世界各地正在學英語的小孩寫的，而今年英詩主題為英雄和英雌。讀讀以下的英詩 — 都寫得十分好，是吧？當然獎品也快來了！
相片見到的就是在英國的得獎者，他們是兩位偉大的兒童小詩人 — Roger Stevens和John Agard。
Hero in the Moon
作者：Leticia Hernández Navarro，八歲，國家：西班牙（冠軍）
The sky is blue, the breeze off the sea
Is fresh. The cars pass in all colours
And in the moon there is you
With all my hopes.
作者： Helena Jelenska，七歲，國家：波蘭（亞軍）
There was Ola and Kasia.
Ola was often visiting Kasia.
Once Kasia came to Ola.
Kasia laughed looking at burned cloth.
Then Ola’s Mom said:
Once when Ola had 2 years
We were in a block.
Everything was on fire
Everybody was running out.
Then came a fireman.
He wrapped Ola in his coat.
A board fell on him
As he went out.
He was taken to the hospital.
There he died.
But Ola was safe.
On my Grandma’s farm, I hear the needle touching the fabric on the sewing machine.
On my Grandma’s farm, I see tall trees and barns.
On my Grandma’s farm, I taste freshly canned jam: strawberry, blueberry or plum.
On my Grandma’s farm, I sink my fingers into the cookie dough we roll out together.
On my Grandma’s farm, I smell our cookies baking in the oven.
One day I went out and I saw my mum.
She told me that she'd found a chest.
I asked her to show me the contents of the chest
and she held out an old, grey sheet.
Oh, how this scroll looked like a treasure map,
With plotted tracks, rocks and a sunken ship,
with a cross, marking place, where a treasure lay,
on the island, which name sounded strange to me.
Hey, Mum, we must start for Green Mountain's Peaks,
where rivers are blue, and the air is fresh.
We'll burrow a hole in the firm rocky ground,
to pull out the jewels that lie in it.
(Inspired by Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson; my hero is Jim Hawkins)
Sweep, sweep, sweeping sound,
On the floor by the door.
I come home to eat hot soup
And he, without lunch,
In the winter that gleams
The snow he cleans.
It is hot like in a pot.
Vacation time starts now,
But how he Mr Sweeper sweeps!
All days, throughout long holidays,
Every day he says to me,
“Hello, great day I say.”
He is a hero and no-one sees
That he is one.
My hero is my grandmother,
Taken to Siberia
Without her mum and dad.
She went with her grandmother and granddad.
It took two weeks
Wolves and bears in the forest.
The only thing to eat
Dug from fields.
She walked seven kilometres to school
Picked flowers and collected nuts to sell
To pay for books.
Twelve years in Siberia
Then returned to Ukraine.
All people in Siberia at that time
You have the brightest mind
You are of the greatest men
In the world.
You look like crazy
But you are a genius
You look old
But you have a brilliant mind.
Your eyes are so clever
Your theory is so perfect.
You are the greatest scientist
Einstein, oh Einstein.
Your hair is like a bird’s nest
You smile like a clown
I would like so much
To be like you
When I grow up
But it’s so difficult, so difficult!
You are a magician of science
Give us your light.
My Beloved Teacher – Ms K
My teacher, my heroine,
You are very gorgeous as
A blooming spring flower,
Polite as a sheep and
Helpful and caring as a grandmother.
What a powerful person who cares
You shape us for tomorrow’s
Future. Shape us with a rare,
Rapier of your rapid, “Where is my
Home-work” and “You can do better
Than this.” How lucky we are
To have such a nice and caring
My teacher, my heroine, you are
As strong as a ferry, a ferry
Which has the strength to load
More things, and you too have
The strength to load these things.
Like being our nurse, our lawyer, our
Entertainer. Voice so sweet like piped
Music, music that always makes us
Merry, music with the power to
Make us rise and shine.
Brave soldiers were they,
In their coffins they lay.
Garlands of flowers covered them,
A few know their name.
Their families bitterly cry,
As they bid their final goodbye.
The commander hides a frown,
When the coffins are put down,
To see the young soldiers dead,
Lying on their flower bedecked bed.
The bugles blare,
Over with the burial,
Who will remember their laurels?
Forgotten soon are their glories.
These heroes leave an unfinished story.5
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