Tigers disappearing fast

A couple of years ago I was lucky enough to travel around North India, visiting three different tiger reserves.  It was absolutely fascinating, as we tracked these magnificent creatures down to observe them in the "wild".  We saw a lot of tigers and got some amazing photos, but the story of their every-declining numbers was always at the back of our minds.  I wrote this poem as my bit towards getting people to understand that we're not going to have these animals much longer if we continue to allow poaching and the trade in tiger body parts.

The Stripes Of The Prisoner

Among the dark shadows of the jungle,

Out of the sun in the heat of the day,

I sit near the cooling, swirling stream,

And rest my aging bones, as is my way.

Advancing years have not been kind to me:

My old, unsteady limbs creak and groan.

There are no younger ones to comfort me.

I spend my time here ever more alone. 

My inscrutable stare is fading fast,

Like my beauty, and my ev’ry dark stripe.

Soon I will fade beyond the background,

And there will be no more of my type.

My ancestors served kings,

Worshipped as god-like things.

Some even had wings,

For, of this, the poet sings.

You were afraid of me once long ago,

But now I’m the one that’s afraid.

Death waits around the corner for me:

A price that’s soon to be paid. 

My grand-parents roamed wild and free,

Dying young, as sport for the gun,

As maharajahs and colonials

Used Mother India as playground for their fun.

Flushed out from hiding places,

Into open spaces,

By men on elephants,

Surrounded,

Cornered,

The shooting parties

Killed the big cats,

Hunted like rats,

Dragged our numbers down,

All in the name of the Crown.

My mother and father then went long ago,

Dragged off in cages to the West,

To star in a zoo or a circus,

With their pelts to be shown off at their best. 

My looks are my downfall,

My fierce beauty inspires your greed.

You just have to have me:

I can supply one of your needs.

My fur is my curse

My tail a collector’s item

My ears and my paws

Everyone wants a piece of my action

My eyes and my tongue

And even the slice of my claws.

My skin on the floor in your home,

My bones ground up to a powder,

My pecker used in a medicine,

In an aphrodisiac chowder. 

I’m worth more dead than alive;

My rarity is my value,

But there are so few of us left,

That now I have to be protected from you. 

I roam around my jungle prison,

But the confines are tight.

Yet my cousins were still hunted like rats,

Cut down by dark men in the night.

These last few forests must be my home,

A “Reserve” for we creatures called game,

But the fear and the respect have gone now:

I’m a prisoner in all but my name.

Your children will not see me or my like,

Our image a strange forgotten sight.

The flame of our existence,

No longer burning in the forests of the night.

So look upon me whilst you can.

There’ll be no more roaring jungle calls.

From this point there’ll be but a silence,

Except the sound of a single tear-drop, as it falls.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2011