Super Bat

It hides in its roost
by a stream in the day.

The moths gather in the gloom.

Sonar is a society norm
among those winged hunters.

Detecting their prey with pin-point
proficiency in the dark.

The moths flutter through the leaves.

The long-eared hunter takes off,
no radar to guide it.

Just the rush and thrum
of a moth's wing-beat

can guide it on course.

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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #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 #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!)

Narrowboat Hootenanny

Roving Otter knew where
to get a decent narrowboat.
He found one at a lock
by the local pub.

The pigeons did their job,
dive bombing punters
sitting at the outside table.
We took no time in boarding.

I assumed command,
Father Vole was the lookout,
Smoking Gose was our engineer,
and Otter drove the boat.

The badgers, foxes, ducks,
geese, moorhens, rabbits,
even Spencer Swan booked
a reservation on the prow.

But our favourite friend
was Manic Owl.
He brought the instruments,
drums, guitars, and saxophones.

The man arrived in time
to see us waving from the stern.
Turns out cruising's all
a narrowboat's good for.

We set up our instruments.
Otter had his bass,
Vole was on the drums,
and Goose had a piano.

Manic Owl had a saxophone,
faded gold and battered,
but it produced sweeter notes
than anything on the water.

I had my old guitar,
an archtop with a red finish.
It was the lead in a jam
with a most ear-raising tune.

Our party went on into the night,
rhythm after rhythm buzzing
off the boat and across the water
to disturb slumbering cows.

Ducks danced with rabbits,
badgers danced with geese.
Spencer Swan demonstrated
the arm-breaker swing

for a group of astonished teal,
while Owl blistered solos
on his saxophone, and we
kept the beat of our hootenanny.

Gods of the Sundarbans

There is a place where three rivers
pour into the Bay of Bengal.
Merging in a vast forest,
they wind their way through
the soaking delta of the Sundarbans.

Mangroves line the creeks
with their rib-like roots.
By day otters swim in the waters,
deer quench their thirst while
macaques watch from the trees.

Night falls, turning the streams
into mirrors of moonlight.
They catch the reflection of a solitary tiger.
It lurks in its forest refuge,
guarded by the coast.

Men sometimes see the tiger at night
as they fish the mangroves
or gather kindling from the forest.
It can swim through creeks and rivers
to kill them on their boats.

The boats rest at the beaches tonight.
No one intrudes on the forest
lest the tiger should appear.
It spies the boats on the shore
and retreats into the shadows.

The Bear of Mysore

after Kenneth Anderson, Man-Eaters and Jungle Killers

The last light of day leaves the fields.
A blazing torch flickers through
the darkness on the road in Mysore.
A woodcutter on his way home
hears a snort somewhere ahead
and the crush of figs under heavy paws.

He approaches the noise through the trees
and spots a figure in the brush.
There is a flash of black fur
in the glare of the woodcutter's torch.
Long claws blunted on termite mounds
lunge out and the fire is gone.

The morning light reveals a corpse.
Red coils protruding from a stomach,
eyes and nose bitten out and ripped
from their vacant sockets,
and a bloody tapestry of muscle
where there was once a face.

NaPoWriMo #30: Spectre of Bali

Even the smallest member
of the family stands tall.

The Queen of Bali,
of the mangroves and the grasslands,
she prowled the dense jungles,
sending deer and birds fleeing,
shrinking from her shadow,
as fierce and revered
as her Indian brothers.

Those from across the sea
came seeking her,
to pay her homage
with steel and lead,
with the teeth of snap-traps
and bullets to the skull.

Every part of her had use,
to the visitors and her neighbours.
Her teeth and claws warded off evil,
her skin adorned the hunters' den,
her whiskers made the sharpest poison.

Such reverence and torment
scattered her to the winds of history.
A museum forms her tomb,
her bones laid in state,
her skin with the stripes faded,
her skull with the bullet hole
decorating her forehead.

Out in the mangroves
the deer sometimes cower
at a passing feline shadow,
a spectre
from the forests of yesterday.

(So ladies and gentlemen, that's it. NaPoWriMo is over for another year. To anyone who's followed my journey through the challenge this year, thanks for sticking around and I'm pleased that we got through it again this year. To my fellow poets who took on the challenge this year, well done for sticking with it to the end! I'll have my full thoughts on how I think it went this time out tomorrow at the latest. Thanks once again, and until next year, goodbye NaPoWriMo!)

NaPoWriMo #18: Agama

The old agama lizard stretches
on the ground under his rock,
his smouldering red scales
morph into freezing blue
as they descend from head to tail.

A curious flash of colour
in the grassland greens and yellows,
the agama crawls onto his throne,
a dot amidst the flat vastness
with a perfect panoramic view.

Very few animals visit him.
The crew of vultures overhead
seem confused by his patterns,
and a passing serval with radar ears
only gives him a passing glance.

Such are the days for the old agama,
to sit and be marvelled at
by his numerous neighbours
like a gem in a reptilian jewellers,
watching the herds follow the rain.

NaPoWriMo #17: Cold Blooded Beat

Midday sun
bathes a rock,
like an oasis,
a daily fuel stop
for sluggish snakes
and sleepwalking lizards.
The cold
festers at night,
their blood
permeated with it,
so they sit
on the rocks
facing the glare,
wait for the heat
to rise and ferment,
all the while
their ancient hearts
thump, thump, thump
like starting engines
under simmering skin
and emerald scales.