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 #29: Sheriff of the Savannah

Two days to go, and here we have the most unusual poem I've ever done for NaPoWriMo. Having read a bit of Edgar Allan Poe recently, I decided to write a poem set upon the African savannah in the same distinctive style (known as trochaic octameter) which he uses in 'The Raven'. So, here it goes.

Sheriff of the Savannah

Upon a hot savannah day the hyenas rest in the shade,
while a lone bull buffalo grazes in the long grass up to his knees.
His herd have moved on to safety, together they number eighty,
while the bull stands far from hasty in the grass up to his knees,
facing the danger approaching through the grass with greatest ease.
He will not run for the trees.

His opponents are no less bold, but he refutes their mighty hold
on the dried up river to the east and bush fires billowing west.
A pride of ten lions stalking while the buffalo starts walking
up to his fierce foes, un-balking, with sizable bovine heft,
not noticing a lack of friends to help in his lonesome quest
he stands firm against the test.

Three at a time they attack him, they try to bite or throttle him,
one lioness jabs from the front, her sisters lunge at his rear.
With fearsome horns he battles them, but his strength fails to scatter them
as they bite, claw and batter him, try to force him to his knees,
force the last great strength out of him and force him onto his knees
slaughter however they please

Yet the lions have not thought it, but the old bull will not forfeit.
He thrusts with his embattled horns and he holds back the onslaught.
At last the lions are tired, but the bull is still battle fired,
and the pride turn to retire to the shade beyond the trees,
leaving their opponent standing in the grass up to his knees,
watching as the lions leave.

The herd returns to greet the bull, the calves proving a small handful
as they jostle round him and stare at the deep wounds on his back.
His hide has withstood the battle, and the bull is hardly rattled
as the mightiest of cattle that roam the savannah track,
roaming across the endless grass along the savannah track
with new scars upon his back.

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 #27: Cormorant Gang

It's another animal poem for day twenty seven of NaPoWriMo, and this time we meet a bird which is famous for being semi-aquatic and is found all over the world, including the banks of the River Ganges.

Cormorant Gang

We take to the water in gangs
up and down the Ganges,
swimming in great processions
as we search for shoals.

The fishermen call us water crows,
apt indeed, for with our hooked beaks
and oily black feathers, we are
their underwater cousins.

We find some unfortunate fish,
and flanked by a clan of otters
we surround them and dart
through the mirk of the river.

The fishermen take their share.
We squabble with the otters for ours,
but our gang leaves with silvery prizes
squirming in our beaks.

NaPoWriMo #26: Watchmen of Mull

Continuing the animal theme for the last few days of NaPoWriMo, I give you a poem centering on birds which went extinct in Britain more than a century ago, but were successfully reintroduced on islands such as Mull in the Inner Hebrides.

Watchmen of Mull

They sat on the clifftops
surveying the Firth of Lorn
in the days when the raptors
ruled the skies above the isles.

The sea eagles fished alongside
the humans on their vessels.
Myths of their viciousness
spread across the isles like rot,

and so did the hunters and trappers.
They purged the land for miles
of the kings and queens of the air,
until their sympathetic descendants

facilitated the eagles' restoration
to their old thrones on the cliffs.
Now the eagles soar over Mull,
snatching fish from the bay,

following their fishermen friends,
raising chicks in the old pines
and watching over their kingdom
should the old threats rear their heads.

NaPoWriMo #25: Jackal Sunset

It's time for another animal-themed poem for day twenty five of NaPoWriMo. The animal in this poem is a predatory creature from India; the rest is fairly straightforward.

Jackal Sunset

It darts across the grasslands
under the shadow of green hills.
The golden jackal searches
for food, living or not.

It chases the trails of the wolves,
leopards and the bloodthirsty dhole,
and will sometimes push its luck
when it spots a tiger on a kill.

The jackal's persistence is rewarded
as the night descends on the teak forest,
a leopard throttling a chital doe.
The jackal must wait to be served.

NaPoWriMo #24: Transformation

So, just six more days to go until the end of NaPoWriMo 2017, and it's left a trail of poetry in its wake. With that in mind, here's another poem about South Wales, and about one city in particular which has a strange habit of remaining aesthetically consistent no matter what new development happens.

Transformation

A train station,
Newport railway Station.
Standing since the days
when Queen Victoria
tried to be most amused
and failed.

It's barely changed since then,
save for one illustrious addition,
the segmented silver concourse
with translucent domes at both ends,
joined by a footbridge strung out
like an enormous grey millipede.

The future, they said.
Modernisation, they said.
Newport is ready
to welcome the world, they said.

The same brown soot cloaks it now.
The old platforms lie in its shadow,
still Victoria, still drab and paint-chipped,
just like everything else.