The Water Song

The water is very nice, nice

The soap is mine, mine, mine

The water is cold, cold, cold

And it makes me feel good at home, home, home

I love the water in my bath tub like a baby whale!

(Impromptu poem by Mahika)

एक छोटा बीज

एक छोटा बीज, ज़मीन के अंदर था
आँख बंद करके, वो सोया रहता था

टिपुर टिपुर बारिश, बीज पे गिरती थी
सरकते सरकते सरकते, वो सरकता चला गया

एक समय आया, सूरज ने प्रकाश डाला
सूरज की किरणें बोली, अब तू बहुत सो लिया

बीज ने ली अंगड़ाई, और वो उठ गया
इधर उधर देखके वो नाचने लगा

एक छोटा पौधा, अब वृक्ष में बदल गया
आसपास के गाँव में वो छाँव देने लगा

आते जाते लोगों को वो छाँव देने लगा
आहा छाँव देने लगा, आहा  छाँव देने लगा

[My daughter performed this song in her first ever school gathering. She could sing it all very well and performed it superbly. Not only is the song beautiful, but my daughter's rendition makes it all the more lovely.]

ऋतुराजाची चाहूल

 - पद्मा गोळे

आला शिशिर संपत
पानगळती सरली,
ऋतुराजाची चाहूल
झाडावेलीना लागली.

देवचाफा हा पहा ना
अंगोपांगी बहरला,
मोगराही कोवळ्याशा
पाने सजाया लागला. 

डोळे खिळविती माझे
जास्वंदीची लाल फुले,
बहाव्याने येथे तेथे
सोनतोरण बांधिले.

'कुहू' गाऊन  कोकिळा
करी वसंत-स्वागत,
तिलाही मी विनविते
शिकव ना मला गीत. 

Habits of the Hippopotamus

- Arthur Guiterman (1871-1943)

The hippopotamus is strong

     And huge of head and broad of bustle;
The limbs on which he rolls along
     Are big with hippopotamuscle.
He does not greatly care for sweets
     Like ice cream, apple pie, or custard,
But takes to flavour what he eats
     A little hippopotamustard.
The hippopotamus is true
     To all his principles, and just:
He always tries his best to do
     The things one hippopotamust.
He never rides in trucks or trams,
     In taxicabs or omnibuses,
And so he keeps out of traffic jams
     And other Hippopotamusses.

Salute to the Trees

- Henry Van Dyke

Many a tree is found in the wood,
And every tree for its use is good,
Some for the strength of the gnarled root,
Some for the sweetness of flower and fruit,
Some for shelter against the storm,
And some to keep the hearthstone warm,
Some for the roof and some for the beam,
And some for a boat to breast the stream.
In the wealth of the world since time began
The trees have offered their gifts to man.

I Had a Dove

- John Keats

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of  grieving;
O, what could it grieve for?
Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving:
Sweet little red feet! why should you die--
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You liv'd alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white pease:
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

The Year's at the Spring

- Robert Browning

The year's at the spring,
     and day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!

The Caterpillar And The Butterfly

-Enid Blyton

A caterpillar green and fat
Upon a juicy cabbage sat,
Eating all day through;
And when a dazzling butterfly,
Creamy-white, came sailing by,
They both said, "How d'ye do?"

"I hope you like my powdered wings,
They're just the very latest things,"
Said Butterfly, in glee.
"And see my tongue, so long and curled,
The finest one in all the world,
A treat for you to see."

"Poor caterpillar! You can't sip
The nectar from a flower's lip,
Nor fly the summer through!"

The caterpillar raised his head,
"Don;t pity me!" he rudely said,
"I'm better off than you!"

"I eat all day, I sit and stare,
I want no flying through the air,
I like to creep and crawl.
A butterfly I'd hate to be,
It's best to be a grub like me,
A caterpillar small!"

Then all the elves who listened near
Laughed like anything to hear
The quarrel 'twixt the two'
But neither the grub nor butterfly
Could ever guess, the reason why-
I know it though! Do you?

श्रावणमासी हर्ष मानसी

श्रावण मासी हर्ष मानसी हिरवळ दाटे चोहीकडे

क्षणात येती सरसर शिरवे क्षणात फिरुनी ऊन पडे

वरती बघता इंद्रधनुचा गोफ दुहेरी विणलासे

मंगल तोरण काय बांधिले नभोमंडपी कुणी भासे

झालासे सूर्यास्त वाटतो सांज-अहाहा! तो उघडे

तरू शिखरांवर उंच घरांवर पिवळे पिवळे ऊन पडे

उठती वरती जलदांवरती अनंत संध्याराग पहा

सर्व नभावर होय रेखिले सुंदरतेचे रूप महा

बलाकमाला उडता भासे कल्पसुमांची मालाची ते

उतरुनी येती अवनी वरती ग्राहगोलची की एकमते

फाडफाड करुनी भिजले अपुले पंख पाखरे सावरती

सुंदर हरिणी हिरव्या कुरणी निजबाळांसह बागडती

खिल्लारे ही चरती रानी गोपही गाणी गात फिरे

मंजुळ पाव गाय तयांचा श्रावण महिमा एकसुरे

सुवर्ण चंपक फुलाला विपिनी रम्य केवडा दरवळला

पारिजातही बघता रोष मनीचा मावळला

सुंदर परडी घेऊन हाती पुरोपकंठी शुद्धमती

सुंदर बाला या फुलमाला रम्य फुले पत्री खुडती

देवदर्शना निघती ललना हर्ष माईना हृदयात

वदनी त्यांच्या वाचून घ्यावे श्रावण महिन्याचे गीत

आभाळ वाजलं धडाड धूम

आभाळ वाजलं धडाड धूम

वारा सुटला सू सू सू

वीज चमकली चक चक चक

जिकडे तिकडे लख लख लख

पाऊस आला धो धो धो

पाणी वाहिला सो सो सो

पाण्यात बोट सोडली, सोडली

हातभार जाऊन बुडली, बुडली

बोटीवर बसला बेडूक, बेडूक

तो ओरडला डराव-डुक, डराव-डुक

धीवर पक्षी

तळ्याकाठी गाती लाटा
लाटामधे उभी झाड
झाडावर धीवरची
दिसे चोच लाल जाड


शुभ्र छाती पिंगे पोट
जसा चाफा यावा फुली
पंख जणू थंडी मधे
बन्डि घाले आमसुली


गड्या पाखरा तू असा
सारा देखणा रे कसा?
पाण्यावर उडताना
नको मारू मात्रा मासा


[ही कविता कोणाची आहे ते आता आठवत नाही. ही कविता आम्ही बालभारती च्या कॅसेट वर ऐकली. कॅसेट वरची कविता आणि अगदी त्याची चाल पण व्यवस्थित आठवते. कोणाला ह्या कवितेबद्दल काही माहिती असल्यास जरूर द्यावी. -PP]

Ode On A Grecian Urn

-John Keats (1819)

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
    What men or gods are these?  What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit?  What struggle to escape?
        What pipes and timbrels?  What wild ecstasy?


Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!


Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape!  Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

One Autumn Day

-Sanjeev Pradhan (2004)

A heavenly sprinkle the conifers cast
conceals the paths of past;
a tiny bird in the gleeful woods come out to fly,
journey far it would have with the autumn
passing by.
Orange, yellow by this small
wonder many colours worn.
Over twirling weather-cocks and flat hill-tops,
fans the moistur'd breeze,
leaving for a destination unknown;
thou messenger of love on earth!

Descends down from divergent branches
with the lone that finds its way.
Leaning sideby a window frame,
a 'hello' to them the couple old it says.
With quick eyes and a beakly nod
seems to join their talk.
How memorable were the yesteryears!
the times which were theirs,
remember'd in the stillnight
warmed by the hearth.
Stumbles then upon the whispering air;
Ah! the cradled sway
back again to nature's care.
And envy not here it slips
In the cosy retreat of the circled stacks
and the carpet of pushed-in twigs.

ऋतू हिरवा

ऋतू हिरवा, ऋतू बरवा
पाचूचा वनी रुजवा
युगविरही हृदयावर, सरसरतो मधूशिरवा

भिजूनी उन्हे चमचमती, क्षण दिपती क्षण लपती
नितळ निळया अवकाशी, मधुगंधी तरल हवा

मनभावन हा श्रावण, प्रियसाजण हा श्रावण
भिजवी तन, भिजवी मन हा श्रावण
थरथरत्या अधरावर, प्रणयी संकेत नवा

नभी उमटे इंद्रधनू, मदनाचे चाप जणू
गगनाशी धरणीचा, जूळवितसे सहज दुवा

गीतकार: शांता शेळके

संगीतकार: श्रीधर फडके

गायक: आशा भोसले  

The Tiger

-William Blake

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

An Ode To Autumn

- John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.