NaPoWriMo #30: The Spring Tiger

In the shade of the sal trees by the silent grass
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.

The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her

until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.

She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.

NaPoWriMo #29: Herring Feast

A lone spout on the rolling sea,
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.

The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.

The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.

The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty

before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.

NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.

NaPoWriMo #27: Song for Home

Five tries, two conversions,
the statistics required
to unleash mayhem onto the streets.

They flood out of the stadium,
pour through the side streets
into every pub in town,
singing to the sky beyond the rafters.

In the railway station
the pigeons start awake in their roosts
as the thunder of a thousand footsteps
rumbles up onto the platform.

A cross-city trains slithers alongside,
every carriage a battleground
filled to the brim like fishermen's nets
and hauled to cities beyond the hills

reverberating with drunken choruses
along every mile of darkening rail
while the city sings into the night.

NaPoWriMo #26: A Fox and a Bulldog

The fox forages on the open field,
eyes turned from the glare of sunlight,
black clouds swirling ahead.

He digs through the furrows,
hoping treasure lies beneath his paws
while rooks shadow him from the hedges.

White tail-tip swishing behind him,
the fox spots something emerging
from the hedgerows, scattering the rooks.

Short and barrel-shaped, lolling tongue,
wide face and button nose,
the bulldog tumbles out of the leaves.

Never has the sharp-nosed fox
seen something so ungainly
as the bewildered beast before him.

As the bulldog approaches, smiling,
the fox appears to cough, then chuckle,
and the rooks watch on from the hedges.

NaPoWriMo #25: Lava Flow

Mountain of fire, overlooking the sea,
snow cascading down the spurs,
occasional steam from the crater,
a reminder to the town in its shadow
that the mountain sleeps for now.

Sometimes the ground rumbles
and the crater belches sparks,
flecks in a royal blue sky
as the caldera simmers miles
under the seaside town.

The fire thunders from the mantle,
cascades above the peak in a wave,
while the molten flows smother
the groves, hissing and glowing
as the rock cools into new crust.

New shoots burst forth
from under the mountain's new skin,
the olives fester on the young trees
and the mountain resumes its slumber
till the caldera boils over again.

NaPoWriMo #24: Return of Spring

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree,
watching as one season gives way to another.

Watching as the skeletal brown
turns to green, and the treetops

are now alive with birdsong.
Thrushes, finches, tits and robins

conjure up a chorus
of incessant cheer.

In the pond below the dove's perch
sits a chamber orchestra of frogs

all croaking in harmonic baritones
complimenting the treetop choir

heralding in the long days
and the longer sunsets.

And so sits the dove in the ivy-clad tree
singing as spring returns to the forest.

NaPoWriMo #23: Rivers of Coal

Up in the hills where the collieries sleep,
where the railway tracks are submerged in moss,
the wheels atop the tower seem to weep
the stones in the blacksmith's yard are all glossed
in a dwindling frost fleeing from the spring.
Caverns beneath the hills vast and still,
adorning the grey cliffs to which they cling,
sheltering sheep against the mountain chill.
The descendants live in the past's shadow
claim the ruins for their own, make them new,
no longer the halls where molten fires flow
but a monument to the mining crew.
Within these hills run the rivers of coal
that brought to the valleys their heart and soul

(And so, to celebrate the birthday of his majesty the Shakespeare, I bring you a sonnet about that most familiar of Welsh subjects.)

NaPoWriMo #22: Eggs of Time

Six eggs scattered in the halls of the past,
one for the beasts that ruled before man,
one for creatures frozen in a silent forest,
one for the statues carved from marble,
one for the tomb of the slumbering whale,
one for the tropical forest of giant dragonflies,
one for the hall of the dancing colours.
All lie in wait till the first light
their shells sport hairline cracks,
the first signs of a new birth,
windows to the past, the present and the future
waiting for those who go looking
and gaze upon the wonders of the world.

(So this one managed to be even more surreal that yesterday's. I tried to give this a vaguely Eastery feeling, but once again something different emerged.)

NaPoWriMo #21: Letters in the Dark

The tunnel cloaked in darkness
less solemn than it seems.
Lines left on the bricks,
luminous bursts swooping up
to the ceiling in a neon flare.

Contorted, distorted, obscure
yet far from indecipherable,
lighting up the whole tunnel
as trains rumble overhead
and water drips from the ceiling.

Swirls forming letters against the bricks
in glittering gold, pristine purple
and incandescent green,
illumination in the shade
and dazzled pigeons on the overhang.

A message to be read
in the curves and twists
made by faceless artists in the hours of starlight,
the hours where the letters
speak the loudest.

(So this poem was initially inspired by the daily prompt from NaPoWriMo, suggesting to write a surrealist poem inspired by Federico García Lorca, but this piece evolved into something much different to what I had in mind originally.)

NaPoWriMo #20: Sibilance

Silently sitting on a stone,
singing songs of sorrow and woe,
seething with symptoms of sanguine symphonies
of soaring skylines and scorching savannahs,
searing sentinels on stony statues,
silent as souls surrounded by shame
and the savage set-piece of sharks in the sea
slicing seals and soliciting sneers
from sinuous sardines who see but don't smile,
sinuses of snakes suffocated by soot,
all in sundry and sonatas,
sonnets strung simultaneously
as it seems in a single sentence.

NaPoWriMo #19: Firestorm

Single spark,
gust of air,
scorching soil
ignited by chance,
whipped up into a blur of a flame
ascending into a column
tall as the tallest jungle trees,
a furnace consuming the green
above and below
where the creepers crisp
and the branches burn
and the inferno engulfs
the canopy and the roots,
every animal for a thousand miles
runs, slithers, flies and gallops
for the edge of the jungle,
but the fire's wrath redoubles
the blaze pursues the denizens,
leaving clouds of ash and rubble behind
till the flames meet the river
and the scalding hot thirst is quenched.

NaPoWriMo #18: Tapestry

It's all captured here.

All written down,

all embroidered in stitching

as a song,

an eternal tale of war

told across millenniums

of three kings and three battles,

soldiers head to toe in suits of chain mail,

horses' hooves churning the mud,

shields feathered with arrows.

A time where any one action

could severe any thread

and the tapestry would unravel.

Yet all of it remains here,

the formations, the marches,

the victories, the defeats,

the conquest and the dominion,

the fall and the coronation.

NaPoWriMo #17: The Angry Bee

There's a cat in the garden
and its chasing me
along the fence
I could just sting
but make no pretense
I will use it
in defence,
my last kamikaze
will be no use to me
if the cat gets away
Scott free
or is it Charlie free?
I can never be sure
but maybe I should
maybe I should just sting
the mewling ball of fluff
those claws aren't worth much
against the wrath of a hive.

NaPoWriMo #16: Horses on the Road

A pair of horses trotting
along a narrow country road.
Higher than the hedges,
with views sheep and pigs crave,
taking in the spring fields
flourishing with renewed greenery.

The riders steer their steeds
past the hedges
and over the crossroads.
The clip-clop of their shoes
on sun-baked tarmac,
a familiar percussion
in the usual farmyard tune.

Cows and sheep line the fields
as the two mares pass,
eyeing the riders with bemusement.
The barn beckons up ahead,
with the promise of fresh hay.

Chickens and geese herald the mares,
a cacophony of honks, quacks and chattering.
No other denizen of the farm
gets to tour the lanes.
A foal leans over a gate,
watches the celebration in the yard,
dreams of the day
when he'll roam the roads.

NaPoWriMo #15: A Tiger's Soliloquy

To what ends must I go
for the safety of my jungle home?
How far should I travel?
How many foes must I face?
Throw them back across my borders
or wallow in disgrace.
I thought the jackals an annoyance,
the wolves worthy rivals
and the infernal dhole a pestilence,
but the bipedal apes with their brazenness
and their fire-spitting weapons,
when they infringe on the jungle,
the combined strength of all my kin
cannot withstand their onslaught.
They slaughter and pillage
wherever they appear,
and I sit perched atop an ancient ruin
ensnared by creepers and vines
watching as their fires engulf the grass,
the trees, the gorges, encircle the waterholes.
The chital, the sambar, the langurs, the boar
all flee across the maidans to the hills,
and I can only prepare for the last bout
as the clever primates converge on my stronghold
and the jungle blazes into the night.

(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo website to write a poem in the form a dramatic monologue in the manner of Robert Browning or William Shakespeare. Never heard of a tiger giving a monologue before, but maybe now we have some insight into what that voice would sound like.)

NaPoWriMo #14: Grand Old Boar of the Dean

The forest harbours many

a strange thing.

From the ghost deer

on the bordering fields,

to the fire squirrels

in the strangling branches. 

Then there are the boar.

The great sounders saunter through the trees,

rooting out roots and bulbs,

the treasure under the soil,

with tusk and hooves

while the white-striped piglets

huddle in the shadow

of a weary old elm.

Grand Old Boar of the Dean,

seen many a challenger approach,

and sent them all fleeing.

Many a hunter took a shot,

just one made a near-miss,

skimming the hairs of his greying mane.

Now he rests in spring shade,

dappled under the canopy,

tusks broken, eyes half-open.

His patrol of the wood will commence

for one last night

when the nightjar starts calling. 

NaPoWriMo 13: Dead End

Glass holds a moving image,
trapped in a continuum,
never free but always moving.

Tethered by a business suit
collared by a white starch shit,
looking out past the city-scape
to a dream caught in the wind.

Choked by the overhead noose,
desperate to be set loose
the shadow of the street upon them.
Scores of maybe friends
smile and dissipate into the night.

They stand by the traffic lights,
on windswept rail platforms,
pigeons perusing the detritus.
Maybe one day
the track forward will clear,
the lights may change.

One day.

NaPoWriMo #12: Dracoraptor

Dragon thief,
forbearer of the tyrant lizard king,
dredged from the cliffs
in a many-layered casket.

Feathered fiend
shore dweller,
red from head to tail-tip,
like the serpentine fire-breather
adorning the flag of its resting place.

Still growing
before the rocks entombed it,
yet still the oldest creature
from the era of the giants,
a tenacious herald
of the giants to come.

NaPoWriMo #11: Twmbarlwm Tribe

The spring light bathes the ancient Celtic fort,
a forgotten tump sat atop a peak.
Nondescript, no markings of which to speak,
yet within its walls are tales of a sort.
The Romans on the plain would try and thwart
the tribe from the woods playing hide and seek.
Against the legion their prospects were bleak,
but on top of the hill they held court,
decided to make the forest their shield.
Subterfuge became their weapon of choice,
they'd strike and disappear into the green
to the phalanx of Rome they'd never yield.
A sentry on the hill yells at full voice,
the army approaches but not unseen.

NaPoWriMo #10: Wanderer

Wild gales whip the Southern Ocean,
spraying salt and surf asunder
across the waves,
an invisible conductor
of an Antarctic opera.

A cross-shaped glider,
black wings against the clouds,
a pink bill and ice white feathers.
The mother albatross soars above
the thrashing sea,
barely moving a wingtip,
glides through the theatre of her struggle,
her mission's end in sight.

On a blizzard-besieged hillside
a mess of black down,
his bill as pink as his mother's,
huddles against the chill,
weathering the winter alone
till a familiar shape plummets
out of the freezing tempest.

The chick feasts on what scraps
his wandering mother could scrounge,
meagre offerings from the unyielding waves.

Not long now,
and the ocean will call her away once more.

NaPoWriMo #9: Eyes of the White Pointer

Seals dare to dither in the churning sea,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes
about to embark on a killing spree.

For just offshore is a ferocious threat,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost,
in the depths lurk silent silhouettes

of gleaming teeth. The great white of the coast,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive,
a black-eyed creature half shadow half ghost.

The white pointer looks up then starts to dive,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom,
the dead-stare shark, yet very much alive.

The white shark rockets up, herald of doom,
it snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
its massive bulk lurches out of the gloom.

The surf churns, the ocean now a red haze,
seals dare to dither in the churning sea.
It snatches its prey, leaps above the waves,
about to embark on a killing spree.

NaPoWriMo #8: Reduced to Clear

A house, empty of all
but the echoes of memories.
Settees and chairs
with no more guests to host,
the kettle's hiss quenched,
an oven turned empty chamber,
the living room, once vibrant
with raucous laughter,
similarly silent.
The memories of generations,
what the retailers would call
reduced to clear,
sitting on display stands
till the "for sale" sign disappears
and the offer expires.

(Today's poem is inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site which asked for a poem turning jargon used in a professional setting into some kind of metaphor. Whether or not I achieved that here is up for debate.)

NaPoWriMo #7: Torrent

A trickle of water
on a bed of pebbles

nourished by nothing,
sheltered by the trees,

one drop
to quench the thirst,

the rains descend,
drench the forest

while mountains weep
and streams tumble,

all engulfed in a torrent,
tumbling down the cliffs

barreling its way
down the gorges

till every pebble
lies submerged,

the once deep gully
now fit to burst

with white surf lashing
the undergrowth

as the rapids explode,
lay claim to the soil,

the bushes, the brambles,
the mud, the mole hills,

their veins burst, spilling
lifeblood of the earth

across the soaking forest,
down to the river,

and even the fish
are swept up

and get lost
in the long grass.

NaPoWriMo #6: Last Minutes of the Day

Concrete's cold embrace

stretching out to meet the sky.

Grasping at the clouds 

with fingers of steel and glass.

The towers of commerce

caressed by the last rays of day,

an orange inferno bathing the rooftops

but shading the streets.

The vacant shop fronts

with hooded figures in sleeping bags

shivering and hunched over,

silhouetted by the glow within.

The trains clatter along aching tracks,

the seagulls swoop and dive 

in the space between the towers

until at last the inferno

is swallowed by the hills beyond

and the city lights take hold. 

NaPoWriMo #5: Heron Waiting

The shadow of death,
the grim reaper on rail-thin legs
looming over the lowly pond
like a feathered crane with cold eyes,

only no fish would willingly
let themselves be carried off
by the heron's yellow jib.
A grey ghost wading through the water
as if walking through walls.

The fish remain undisturbed,
gazing up from the green depths
seeing nothing but the reeds.
Then a blinding flash,
the grey shadow strikes,
takes off on silent wings.

NaPoWriMo #4: Sleet

The weather's not sure, should it rain or snow?
It's supposed to be April, time for spring,
but it seems the forecasters don't know
that spring sunshine can be a fickle thing.
 year's worth of frozen ice falls en masse.
For anyone out in the open air,
they should've just given this one a pass,
for the sleet will bring its wrath to bare
on all humans, mammals and birds alike.
Ice in my shoes, in my coat, up my nose,
what madness told me to try and hitchhike
through such freezing chaos I'll never know.
    Be sure to check the next weather forecast.
    You can never be sure if spring will last.

NaPoWriMo #3: Wild Goat Chase

Nothing about me seemed that special.
I'm just like any other Kashmiri kid.
Wandering the Great Orme with my herd,
grazing amongst the blooming orchids,
white fur and a beard as scruffy as any other.
A tuft grew out between my horns
and suddenly I was a marked goat.

Shenkin IV they named me.
Chosen to fill a vacancy I didn't know was going,
passed an interview I didn't attend.
Soldiers dressed in deciduous patterns,
white feathers atop their caps,
called out to me through the trees.
I wondered in those feathers
were their way of trying to blend in with the herd.

Still, I gave them the slip.
If they wanted to make me a fusilier
they'd have to earn my service.
I darted here and there, to a fro,
across the headland and through the thickets,
their whistles and entreaties useless.
My mother taught me not to heed mimicry.

How amusing to see allegedly trained troops
defeated by a four-footer for four weeks.
Being on the run was time-consuming,
but then a man with a dart gun caught me out.

Now I find myself a fusilier.
My sergeant's given me my own uniform
to make me part of this human herd.
Soon I'll meet something called the public
with my  harness and silver headpiece on.

Maybe I'll get to march by the Orme sometime
and let my old herd know I'm still here.

NaPoWriMo #2: The Coils of Dread

The coils of dread, diamond shape scales,
coils looping round a spade-shaped head,
eyes scanning all the jungle trails,
the coils of dread.

The snake glistens, skin freshly shed.
Against its strength few beasts prevail,
the python kills with no bloodshed.

Against it most other snakes pale.
It haunts a path few beasts dare tread,
unwinds, strikes like a whip or flail.
The coils of dread.

(Today's poem is a roundel, a form devised by the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne. This one was a bit of a challenge due to the fact that all the lines apart from the refrain need the same number of syllables, but I think I managed to get something out of it.)

NaPoWriMo #1: The Winter Tiger

In the windswept forest of ice and snow,
in the mountain blizzard and the winter's cold,
a spectre of stripes glides through the tundra.

Other creatures clear the way for her,
the terror of the northern reaches.
Her fur a tapestry of tawny and black,
a roaring fire amidst the white haze.

Her den cradled by the roots of an old pine,
the fallen cones scattered outside.
A hare crosses the threshold,
hears a rumbling growl within and flees.

The mother tigress shelters her newborns,
blind and mewling, against the arctic chill.
Soon the hunt will call to her again,
and she will haunt the ice once more.

(Yep, we're off on the NaPoWriMo adventure once more. Who knows where it'll go this year, but we'll soon find out with the next installment tomorrow. See you all there, and to my fellow poets, good luck!)