topics: |  poetry | tagore | translation |

To many young readers, especially those growing up away from Bengal, Tagore
may be rather a stern figure with a Santa Claus like beard with little cheer
about him. But as a writer Tagore has a delightful sense of the absurd and
witty style that he reserves for his charming repertoire of stories and poems
for young people. In fact, of the 31 collected volumes of his published work
the equivalent of about two volumes, consists of writing for young
people. The Oxford India Illustrated Children's Tagore brings together quite
a few of the writer's best pieces including poems and plays. The best pieces
are probably the ones taken from his memoirs that deal with his childhood. A
style of growing up that is alien to most, they aren't just records of time
with family and friends but also wonderful pen pictures of a time gone by.

Of special interest are the illustrations, some done by Tagore and others
by artists from Shantineketan - often quite simple lines simply inked in, yet
telling in their effect

Flowers p.3-4

I couldn't see
Upon this tree
    A single flower
	Yesterday,
And now it's full:
Can the gardener tell
    How it could happen
	Just this way?

At hide and seek
The flower's peek
    Within the trees
	They come and go.
Where do they hide,
Where do they bide
    With faces veiled
	Does someone know?

Hidden from looks
Within their nooks
    They watch and wait
	With open ear,
Until the breeze
Among the trees
    Whistles a call
	They somehow hear

At frantic pace
They scrub their faces
    For there's just
	No time to lose;
The on they press
In coloured dress
    From their homes
	And out they cruise

Where is that home
From which they come?
    Is it upon
	The earth close by?
Dada says no;
He seems to know
    It's far away
	Up in the sky.

There all the day
Upon their way
    Colourful clouds
	Sail to and fro;
The sunlight pours
Through secret doors
    And in their midst
	The breezes blow