Posts filed under ‘.themes’

I Live in Tokyo

by Mari Takabayashi

Have you ever been to Tokyo, Japan? Far away, in the Pacific Ocean, Tokyo is a busy city of color, activity, celebrations, gigantic buildings, and much more. Seven-year-old Mimiko lives in Tokyo, and here you can follow a year’s worth of fun, food and festivities in Mimiko’s life, month by month. Learn the right way to put on a kimono and see Mimiko’s top ten favorite meals—just try not to eat the pages featuring delicious wagashi!


July 9, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Star-Festival Song

たなばたさま [Tanabata-sama]

ささのは さらさら
のきばに ゆれる
お星さま きらきら
きんぎん すなご

ごしきの たんざく
わたしが かいた
お星さま きらきら
空から 見てる

sasa no ha sara-sara
nokiba ni yureru
ohoshi-sama kira-kira
kingin sunago

goshiki no tanzaku
watashi ga kaita
ohoshi-sama kira-kira
sora kara miteru

The bamboo leaves rustle,
shaking away in the eaves.
The stars twinkle,
gold and silver grains of sand.

The five-colour paper strips
I have already written.
The stars twinkle,
watching us from heaven.


July 7, 2020 at 7:07 am Leave a comment


by Eavan Boland

Back from Dublin, my grandmother
finds an eviction notice on her door.
Now she is in court for rent arrears.
The lawyers are amused.
These are the Petty Sessions,
this is Drogheda, this is the Bank Holiday.
Their comments fill a column in the newspaper.
Was the notice well served?
Was it served at all?
Is she a weekly or a monthly tenant?
In which one of the plaintiffs’ rent books
is she registered?
The case comes to an end, is dismissed.
Leaving behind the autumn evening.
Leaving behind the room she entered.
Leaving behind the reason I have always
resisted history.
A woman leaves a courtroom in tears.
A nation is rising to the light.
History notes the second, not the first.
Nor does it know the answer as to why
on a winter evening
in a modern Ireland
I linger over the page of the Drogheda
Argus and Leinster Journal, 1904,
knowing as I do that my attention has
no agency, none at all. Nor my rage.

July 5, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

There is a June when Corn is cut

by Emily Dickinson

There is a June when Corn is cut
And Roses in the Seed —
A Summer briefer than the first
But tenderer indeed

As should a Face supposed the Grave’s
Emerge a single Noon
In the Vermilion that it wore
Affect us, and return —

Two Seasons, it is said, exist —
The Summer of the Just,
And this of Ours, diversified
With Prospect, and with Frost —

May not our Second with its First
So infinite compare
That We but recollect the one
The other to prefer?

June 28, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

A City for Corduroy

Corduroy Books
by Don Freeman


June 22, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Buona Festa del Papà

June 21, 2020 at 6:21 am Leave a comment


Happy World Tessellation Day!
by Emily Grosvenor

Join Tessa in this whimsical and engaging math picture book, which will teach children about tessellations and inspire them to get outside and be a part of nature!


June 17, 2020 at 10:22 pm Leave a comment

Nanatsu no Ko

Nanatsu no Ko (七つの子, lit. Seven children, or Seven baby crows, The crow’s seven chicks)

Mother crow, why do you squawk so?
Because high on the mountain
I have seven cute children.

“Cute, cute,”
This mother crow sings.
“Cute, cute,”
Cries the mother crow.
You should behold the old nest
On the mountain. And there you’ll see such
Round-eyed, good children.

Karasu naze nakuno
Karasu wa yama ni
Kawai nanatsu no
Ko ga aru kara yo
Kawai kawai to
Karasu wa nakuno
Kawai kawai to
Yama no fuurusu e
Itte mite goran
Marui me o shita
Iiko da yo


烏 なぜ啼くの
可愛 可愛と
可愛 可愛と


June 14, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment


by Gwendolyn Brooks

That clock is ticking
Me away!
The me that only
Ate peanuts, jam and
Is gone already.
And this is
‘Cause nothing’s putting
Back, each day,
The me that clock is
Ticking away.


June 13, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment


Quand l’abeille, au printemps, confiante et charmée,
Sort de la ruche et prend son vol au sein des airs,
Tout l’invite et lui rit sur sa route embaumée.
L’églantier berce au vent ses boutons entr’ouverts ;
La clochette des prés incline avec tendresse
Sous le regard du jour son front pâle et léger.
L’abeille cède émue au désir qui la presse ;
Ella aperçoit un lis et descend s’y plonger.
Une fleur est pour elle une mer de délices.
Dans son enchantement, du fond de cent calices.
Elle sort trébuchant sous une poudre d’or.
Son fardeau l’alourdit, mais elle vole encor.
Une rose est là-bas qui s’ouvre et la convie ;
Sur ce sein parfumé tandis qu’elle s’oublie,
Le soleil s’est voilé. Poussé par l’aquilon,
Un orage prochain menace le vallon.
Le tonnerre a grondé. Mais dans sa quête ardente
L’abeille n’entend rien, ne voit rien, l’imprudente !
Sur les buissons en fleur l’eau fond de toute part ;
Pour regagner la ruche il est déjà trop tard.
La rose si fragile, et que l’ouragan brise,
Referme pour toujours son calice odorant ;
La rose est une tombe, et l’abeille surprise
Dans un dernier parfum s’enivre en expirant.

Qui dira les destins dont sa mort est l’image ?
Ah ! combien parmi nous d’artistes inconnus,
Partis dans leur espoir par un jour sans nuage,
Des champs qu’ils parcouraient ne sont pas revenus !
Une ivresse sacrée aveuglait leur courage ;
Au gré de leurs désirs, sans craindre les autans,
Ils butinaient au loin sur la foi du printemps.
Quel retour glorieux l’avenir leur apprête !
A ces mille trésors épàrs sur leur chemin
L’amour divin de l’art les guide et les arrête :
Tout est fleur aujourd’hui, tout sera miel demain.
Ils revenaient déjà vers la ruche immortelle ;
Un vent du ciel soufflait, prêt à les soulever.
Au milieu des parfums la Mort brise leur aile ;
Chargés comme l’abeille, ils périssent comme elle
Sur le butin doré qu’ils n’ont pas pu sauver.

June 12, 2020 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

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