Pymble Ladies' College – Group Poems (Year 9)

The Tiger

Ribs poking out, deepening purple grey bruises.
What is one day, lying against the sun-baked concrete
dragging heavy long tails atop their prints
 
alert – watching, waiting
He could feel the end was near.
Surrounded by concrete, last of their kind
remembered in camera’s eye;
lost in the blood lust of man.
Stripes blur as they run faster.
Not fast enough.

Tasmania, the island

history now gone.
The stripes have disappeared;
a deep loss lies within us.
Yet does anyone care?
 
Empty, hollow, black and white
images screaming dried up hope,
wrapped in a burden of non-existent light,
It took its last breath and then
 
trust lost forever.
Where hope was just a memory,
the glisten of their eyes is long gone
glazed eyes facing the stars
sinking into the endless abyss;
unable to be rendered as an ancient relic.
Faded.
That wild spark: gone
No-one can look them in the eyes anymore,
the glare lost.
The tiger itself not the only thing behind bars.
 
 
They used to thrive in the green wilderness
paws treading on soft sand, fading
the group of them – no longer.
We came for them.
 
We don’t really understand what we have done.
We think about it but we don’t take action, we just stand
and only realize what we have lost, now
If only we saw their beauty before. 
 
 
Untitled
By Anonymous
 
Beauty stands clear
Striped like a zebra
Ran as fast as a cheater
His name was Peter
 
It walks, standing gracefully
It roars softly, killing as it goes,
It dies quickly
You know
 
Those empty eyes
Dappled shadows and feral faded striped
Faded ground white like the distant skies
And the swirling storm of a red sunrise.
You will never see again.
 
Whilst some things linger, keep and last
The shadows that hang behind them
fade, neglected, forgotten.
What was a king turned into a pawn.
Fading silently, silently
Until not even the brightest light
will illuminate it from darkness.
 
One left, one memory,
One out of once thousands,
Only one reminder in black and grey streaks
Drifts in and out of remembrance.
 
Truganini the tiger of Tazmania
Lives only for the existence
of her people who have thinned
Like the stripes up her back.