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 #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 #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 #28: Walking Catfish Wanderings

As the finish line of NaPoWriMo looms near, it's time to tackle another of their optional prompts. This time, the challenge is to use Skeltonic verse, pioneered by the fifteenth century English poet John Skelton. Put simply, it involves the use of short stanzas mixed with a vague rhyming scheme and two strong stresses per line. Here it goes.

Walking Catfish Wanderings

A catfish goes walking
and without talking
ponders life on the jungle floor
which it has not seen before.

Its pool is dry
and it must try
to search for new pastures
and squirm a bit faster

with spines on its gills,
with which it could climb hills
as it wills itself across
the land of twigs and moss

to find a small stream
with just a gleam
of light through the leaves
and finally it heaves

itself into the flow
where no other fish can go
and submerges below the surface,
having travelled the furthest

of any fish across land,
done without any hands,
a fish with instinct so strong
its journey did not go wrong.

NaPoWriMo #15: Hunters Return

It's finally happened. I've reached the half-way point of NaPoWriMo, and to celebrate this milestone, I present a poem which was inspired by a story I've been following recently.

Hunters Return

A young chimpanzee
sits beneath a tree
in the Ugandan jungle,
his brother lounging
in the branches above.

They had considered
shadowing the hunting gang
when they left,
but given their mob mentality
the brothers decided better.

Suddenly a clamour strikes up,
the jungle canopy explodes
into a frenzy of shrieks.
The youngsters recognise
the work of their older kin.

The hunters return
with dismembered red colobus
to satiate their bloodlust.
Maybe a morsel or two
will be left for the brothers
if they ask nicely.