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 #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 #30: Tiger Fire

And so, it has come to this; the final day of NaPoWriMo. How better to see off this year's event than with a recurring theme which lent this blog its name?

Tiger Fire

On the edge of a lake in Northern India,
where crocodiles gather and bask in the sun,
the way chital and sambar are restless
as the sun is directly overhead
and the grass is as dry as sand.

A fire crackles into life
and rages across the meadows,
flushing unsuspecting creatures
from their hiding places
and into the blaze's lethal path.

A tiger, resting under a sal tree,
feels the heat of the fire's hunger
and flees towards the lake,
flanked by the langur monkeys
and wild boar following in his wake.

At the water's edge, the tiger halts.
The flames cut off paths of escape.
The forest across the water remains unburned.
The tiger spies the chital running,
running to the lake to save their hides.

At last, the fire claims the shore,
but the tiger fears it no more,
for he alone amongst cats
masters the waters of the lake,
and tears past the crocodiles
to reach the opposite shore.

NaPoWriMo #5: King of Cats

It's time for another tiger poem. This one was inspired by a prompt from the NaPoWriMo site, which encouraged participants to write a poem based in the natural world, in line with the work of Mary Oliver. It could be about a plant, animal or location and preferably one you have experienced often. So here's my attempt.

King of Cats

The last vestige
of a bygone time
when beasts still ruled
and humans huddled
around campfires,
telling stories
of the tiger.

The golden eyes of authority,
the only source of it
in the entire jungle.
No leopard or sloth bear
can match its grace
or the power with which
it pulls down a sambar stag
or duels with a bull guar.

Stripes, oily black,
on a burning coat of fur,
the emblazoned symbol
of an entire nation.
Humans appropriate its image,
worship its primal majesty,
fear its savagery when they step
into its isolated domain.

Yet in the face of a tiger
rests hopes for the future,
a future devoid of fear
of man-made extinction.
All things have their time,
but theirs is approaching sooner
in the form of snares, traps
and the weaponry of man.

Poets attempt to encapsulate
the tiger's immortality,
yet it is a construct,
a poetic device disguising
the battleground of the old jungles,
the trails of skins
leading across Asia.

A tigress sits in her den,
tending to her mewling cubs,
their young stripes help light the flame
which burned for millions of years,
faced with being extinguished
before its time.

Night of the Dhole

A whistling scream.

When mist falls on the forest
and the silvery meadows,
deer turn their heads
and dart into the trees.

Peacocks scatter
into the undergrowth.
The last brave sambar
stands in the grass,
spying the forest's edge.

Screams echo.
The sambar takes flight.
A single dhole emerges
from the trees,
with white teeth bared
and a coat of red fur.

The pack scourges the meadows -
infiltrates the forest
as the night draws in.
Wolves flee
from their hungry growls
and voracious yapping.

Somewhere in the darkest tangle
of bamboo thickets, a sleeping tiger
hears the whistling pack
and twitches.