"ululations" poems
'A triangle on the mount of mercury
is certainly an auspicious sign'
Thumping percussion of a native beat
in my head, a gyrating hindsight
The evening streams down pouring
streaks of grey and mangled orange
Walking past a bicycle chained to railings
front wheel mangled into a rough square
Squaring a circle, huh? How did that happen?
two thumps and a sonant beat...and again...
I see you sipping latte by Nero.
Mangled, stream out of your eyes
many coloured triangles
rushing, wheeling at me.
Vibrant beat, gyrating bottoms.
The mercury is soaring. Ululations.
The night-witch has charmed the city in her cloak.
Stars, oh, I see mangled triangles out of her hat.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Night, the oldest of mysteries
settles, spreading like hunger.
A pall of mist
shrouding over the world.
Siren sounds and firefighters,
drunken brawls, and
receding beats.
Eyes of wonder asleep,
emerging out of
the network of shadows
growing creeper-like.
Stray nuggets of light
also reach the eyes shut
in meditation.
Furtive shadows of passion,
elsewhere. Muffled joys;
Shades of bottle-grey.
Cricket-song. Ululations
faint. Raspy owl-calls,
intermittent.
In the deep, secret
rites of initiation.
Somewhere in the far
highlands
the stars and
the broken moon peep in.
Old song on a highway truck.
Little lamps adorning the hills,
courtyards in the distance.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
––––––––a sight swims in
and then fades––––––––
I could, at one time, grasp the day
its tails and wings, the colour
all its sounds and visions vivid
splashing in my eyes
I did, once in time, breathe the ocean
clear my lungs, taste the sea
watch the seagulls dive for dinner
washing up the waves
I have, before, heard the morning
the horn of the hunters, bells and song
cast over the landscape in ululations
and travelling ever beyond
I know, even now, of worlds beyond mine
shimmering in hope, bursting with laughter
warming the hearths of every home
with life
but somehow, I seem to have forgotten
cannot hold the whispers in seconds
lose my thoughts in moments
and forget even faces
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
We sat, legs spread,
on the glass-cracked hatch-backed beat-up cruiser
with fingers numb from cold beer bottles,
and billows of smoke swelled in the air
like nuclear mushroom clouds
but quiet.
And the voice of the crowd
echoed back to us in vacant ululations
from very far away
and what did the score matter anyway
when the sun valiantly battled the autumn breeze
and won?
And my hair whipped back in fire-tongues
and we held up our arms to embrace the sun
and we were champions.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
Ululations break the night –
Primal lows meandering over marsh:
The voices of creatures curious and lost,
Alien to these muddy shores.
Spectral under first-light obscurity,
The estuary’s fog swathes those beasts,
Slick hulks rippling the dark water
With trailing wakes of brackish grime.
Bank side, a lonely smudge stands sentinel,
Helpless to heed the low mourning song
Trembling across the fen.
These wearisome keens are muted in murk
And all sound is swallowed
By the rallying dawn.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
Wind whips, whistling in the seat belt,
Crooning along to the emotional ululations
As I succumb to the emphatically teenager-like emotions,
Grand in their extremity,
Both realizing and fully embracing the cliché-ness
And dramatization of every quip, gesture, glance.
My mood soars irrationally with the voraciousness of my tires,
Devouring every granule of cement at velocities upwards
Of 30 miles per hour.
Jason Mraz and I make an excellent duet,
As I’m quite certain the disgruntled woman a lane over
At the stoplight thinks as well.
He sings of skies “getting rough”
And I allow my eyes to wander to our own ominous clouds,
Creeping from the east like panthers prowling in search of prey;
I appreciate their slate undertones and umber rumples,
The gold shining from behind and within, tinting their edges,
But I turn my attentions slowly, with a bittersweet notion,
To their fluffy brethren, friends of Magritte,
Iridescent and captivating as they weave among the rays.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair,
a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent
air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.
The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs
after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice
communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its
gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations
swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch
of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.
There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves,
assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of
names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns
maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,
a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor
of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude
towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,
you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse
fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing
what it means to sing and drone only words.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Sometimes we dig graves for ourselves
Then we cry wolf when they start swallowing us
Time and time again we go back there
Infact we don't even make any effort to stay away
We make merriment, ululations and joyful noises
We dance and celebrate by the graveside at all hours of the day
Then we cry wolf when it swallows us
Deliberate recklessness
The stench of death we ignore
The warning signs blaring
The signals loud and deafening
We eat, drink and make
Merry at the graveside
Without a care in the world
What consequences?
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
Daybreak: a sleeve of wind’s voice,
Gentle ululations, then a smear of gold
There’s a shuddering of sequined water
Reflecting ice-veined crags still frozen
In distress.
A living lens snaps the moment
All the way to its vanishing point.
Then, long, slow sepals, slippery
As syllables of a foreign language,
Transmute to a giant bloom,
A silk-red reflection falling upward,
Tumbling over pink-sheep clouds
Interrupting the stillness
Of this blue-grey universe.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
Me and my brothers
We are raised tall and defiant
We are rallied and railed against
An apathetic world at which we spit
We spiel our ululations to the night sky
Our candles burn at both ends
We rise to get broken
Here comes ocean
Icarus wouldn't be a legend
If he hadn't aimed for heaven
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Your festive ululations
fill my mind-halls
with bird chatter
bending from your
broken beak
in ten thousand melodies
hung up in the air
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
long that distant eve
when you bore the torch
flaming
into the horizon
every lonely hour,
weeps the sky
mourning your loss,
when the palms in the searing season
sway blown in your breath
our forlorn world:
anguished the ululations;
The hour when
the darkness lifts,
deep in the soul
when the moment comes,
rise rise,
secret power of the world,
knows not the demiurge -
Who lies curled in the cell and root
that rises up in the sprout,
long after the wildfires,
that the saw and axe cannot log
the sap of life,
scattered but not lost even in the
pits of the night, the light
that shines as the stars
now setting the eastern sky
on fire.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC