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!)

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.

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 #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 #20: The Tale of Hannah Twynnoy

On the twentieth day of NaPoWriMo, my poetry said to me: "How about another tiger poem?". Well, I'm only too happy to oblige, so here's a poem inspired by the apparently true story of 18th Century barmaid Hannah Twynnoy. Where's the tiger in this? Read on and you'll see.

The Tale of Hannah Twynnoy

A long time ago, three centuries ago,
in the town of Malmesbury,
there lived a barmaid
named Hannah Twynnoy.

Now the pub Hannah worked at
was called the White Lion.
Such a name could have been a hint
of how things would transpire.

One day some animals came
to live in the pub's back yard.
Hannah spotted a tiger amongst them,
never had she seen a cat so large.

So fearsome yet held behind bars,
she saw no harm in provoking the beast.
She overestimated the patience of tigers
and things went more than a bit too far.

Now Hannah lies in the grounds of the abbey,
her headstone recording her last day alive,
when the tiger's patience finally snapped
and there was nowhere left to hide.

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.

And he sits on his illustrious throne

And he sits on his illustrious throne,
fashioned from the great jungle cats of old,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.

Bought by the hands of the rich city men,
built by men sheltering from the night's cold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne.

Those eager to leave their village and send
spoils from the jungle to the mountain fold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.

Snares, traps, guns, the tools of desperate men,
the buyer ensures his foes are not told
how he sits on his illustrious throne.

From Ranthambore to Pench and back again,
the flow of pelts and corpses always sold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.

The last tiger hides in his bamboo den
until taken to the rich man's stronghold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.

The Life Choices of Ming

Fun fact about being born in captivity,
you don't choose where you go next.

As it happens I left my cage
when I was still a mewling cub.
Somebody from the city thought
I'd be the perfect living decoration
for his flat twenty one stories up.

It wasn't as if I was along up there;
my alligator flatmate shared the space,
we even had our own bedrooms.
Al didn't get much exercise though.

Frozen chickens taste great in abundance,
and our keeper had plenty of those.
Sometimes he'd bring friends with him.
I'd introduce myself
regardless of their expectations.

Then that housecat arrived.

Clearly our keeper had forgotten
I had paws the size of plates.
It's a shame he got in the way,
otherwise I wouldn't have bitten him,
he wouldn't have gone to hospital,
a policeman wouldn't have tried to
parasail into the flat,
and I wouldn't have given him
a burglar's welcome.

My cage now is quite nice actually.
I get on well with the other tigers,
and my keepers feed me
more than chickens these days.

(This poem is based on the real-life story of Ming of Harlem. For further reading check out this New York Times article and this interview with Antoine Yates, Ming's owner.)

Champawat

after Jim Corbett, Man-eaters of Kumaon

In the jungles of Kumaon
a darkness descended
in the form of a tigress.

She came from the windswept
forests of Nepal, having taken
two hundred lives.
Soldiers hunted for her,
and she fled to find a new kingdom.

She prowled the fields
around Champawat,
stalking those who strayed
too far from their homes.
She pounced on them
while they gathered dried leaves,
to drag them off into a ravine,
leaving trails of crimson in her wake.

Her roars rumbled
along the road at night,
and her prey shivered in their huts.
The tigress grew bloated
on human flesh,
but another two hundred lives
could not satisfy her.

A pool of fresh blood,
a shattered blue necklace.
The tigress drags her newest kill,
a girl of sixteen,
into the forested ravine.
A severed, abandoned leg
turns the water red.
A rustling in the scrub.
She growls, snarls, retreats into the brush.
She can smell a man's scent.

She follows a stream to the ridge,
but her hunter is persistent.
That night she feasts,
but come the morning drums echo
from the trop of the ridge.
She awakens to see
her pursuers in the marsh.

Two rounds from a shotgun,
and one round from a rifle
send her tearing up the hill.
The drums beat louder,
voices chanting in a frenzy.
She rounds on her enemies
and charges her undaunted pursuer.

A blast, and the tigress stops.
A second blast and she flinches,
ears flattened and bared teeth.
She flees for a rock,
but her hunter is not deterred.
He is the last thing she sees
before the final blast.

The drums turn silent,
the chanting reaches fever-pitch,
and the tigress lies still,
staring up at the hunter
with lightless amber eyes.

The Tiger Poet vs. Kaziranga National Park

If you've been following this blog for a while, you will know that India is a subject I write about a lot. I've had an interest in the country since I was three years old, having watched documentaries about its wildlife on television, and six years ago I got to visit India in person and visit some of its national parks. I visited Kanha and Bandhavgarh National Park in Madhya Pradesh, and while the former in particular was a dream destination for me, there was one park I had hoped to visit maybe on a return journey; Kaziranga.

It seems Kaziranga has been thrust into the spotlight in recent years. Situated on the banks of the Brahmaputra in Assam, India's most easterly state, it has become a conservation success story due to its efforts to preserve the Indian rhinoceros. It has since become even more famous due to visits from the British Royal family and as being one of the locations featured in David Attenborough's Planet Earth II. But now Kaziranga National Park seems to be in the news for other, more worrying reasons. The other day, while finishing my last post, I stumbled upon a BBC News article by Justin Rowlatt detailing the current situation between the forest department which manages Kaziranga and the local people who live on the edge of the park.

 In the last couple of years forest guards have been given extraordinary powers to shoot and kill anyone inside the park who they suspect to be involved in poaching. For many years the forest guards have been involved in a long-term battle against poaching gangs, but the BBC reported that while the number of rhinos killed in the last few years has decreased, the number of people shot by the park guards has reached fifty. Compare this to two people prosecuted for poaching in the last three years and only one forest guard killed by poachers in the past twenty years, it seems there is something amiss with Kaziranga's conservation methods. Add to this allegations of torture by the forest department and evictions of villages along the park border and we have ourselves a truly convoluted situation.

So what can I offer to the discussion? I have spoken about the blight of poaching in some of my poetry, most strongly in 'Ghosts of Sariska' which was my attempt to deal with the Sariska Tiger Reserve poaching scandal in poetic form. It was a case in which an entire population of tigers were killed of by poachers due to a combination of poor management and outdated protection methods. That was in 2005, and India has redoubled its conservation efforts since then. According to the BBC article, this new policy which allows park guards to shoot potential poachers came into force following a recommendation after the number of rhinos lost to poachers more than doubled in 2013. However, this leads to cases where local people with no connection to poaching gangs are getting caught in the crossfire, and this is where conservation crosses the line.

I'm all for increased security to protect endangered species from poachers. It has been proved in other cases such as the Sariska scandal that local people often work with poaching gangs due to the high financial gains involved in trading rhino horns and tiger skins. But shooting and killing people indiscriminately, like something out of a Judge Dredd comic, sends entirely the wrong signal to those communities who can aid the Assam Forest Department's efforts. India has a long history of coexistence with the natural world, and these tribal communities who have lived in the forest for centuries are in an ideal place to aid conservation efforts.

That's not to say that humans and animals should be made to share the same space. The establishment of twenty eight Project Tiger reserves in the 1970s involved the relocation of people and villages, which led to a comeback for tigers in the wild. Nevertheless, the expansion of Kaziranga has turned into a human rights issue, with entire villages being evicted and then demolished, leading to clashes between local people and the police. Also due to the fact that the forest guards are protected from prosecution if they kill someone, it seems as if local people have the cards stacked firmly against them.

I won't pretend to have the answers for this situation. On the one hand it's great to see conservation in India strengthening but disheartening to see such brutal methods being employed. Somehow a balance needs to be struck between the needs of people and animals while still maintaining a firm line against poachers. The comeback of endangered species such as the Indian rhino is a triumph of conservation, but when compared with the human cost it seems that a revaluation of the way forward is desperately needed.