Head, Island, time and wave


Camp Collection Nostalgic Summer Camp Holiday LookBook

It is here we keep hands.

Can you squash the honeybees

on this table?

My head bronzes the idea of faking islands,

for our home. To save

it. My head is the sun, islands;

a wave.

I hold your head and move it.

to the sight of dwellers.

I feel close to an idea I don’t hold.

A persimmon seems orange

from our reeded home.

from here.

I remember walking away in the middle of

the supper.

And watch you all from the attic’s floorboard.

There’s a hole, you don’t know of.

You smell of a marsh. The sweat filled up in the

depression of your collarbone is a part of something

bigger. You break it. It does not exist. Now.

But one knows it had been,

there. You stick.

You should lose an arm

and I, an eye.

I think.

To know what other ways,


To wave and watch.

My mother after

an Eye operation

told me

she would have loved to see everything.

before losing sight for an hour.

An obvious fear of incapabilities.

I have it. I know you have it.

You do not have to hurtle away.

You pack mangoes. The green mangoes.


you know it takes four days to reach back.

The woman knows you’d be home.

The wind is softer.

Dwellers stop

to dwell.

You travel and reach home.

The water in your belly hurts when you sleep

facing floor. Everything about leaving our place

would hurt, I knew.

For a month. Or four, maybe?

Not any longer. It shouldn’t be.

You work and live good.

My head bronzed the picture in mind;

One I imagine you to have become.

by now.

Good, in every way.

I write. I need to think of you.

You don’t have to think of


You couldn’t squash the honeybees.

You loved them

and you loved your skin.

My island isreal. Your city too.

very different.


By the time

We ate the sun and tried to become.

Everything. Anything, we could.

The land looks swollen.

We return the sun to the place the other day.

After flood. Everything about it is sadly red.

You ask

a sinking loon, if it needs to be pulled.

It cries for mother.

It’ll be late.

I remember you want to sit on the top of that oak.

You reach. You’d fall anytime. I know

You’re falling.

I ask you, if you’d like me to catch.

You shut eyes.

A bit too late.

I talk about things for hours. Sing a few poems

to them.

By the end, they wanted to know

if I wanted them to listen. They were ready now.

I lost the power to redo things.

On an empty beach. While two people make love

An orange dog with sunken belly,

vomits in the background.

They loved dogs.  But they couldn’t see.

An hour later they reach it.

The orange of its body goes blue.

Nothing beautiful left. Anymore.

The short woman behind the fat sunflower,

I talked about. Hasn’t lamented

since morning. She touches

everything beside her.

Like touching is the only way left

to realize how unusual the detachment

felt in the sides of her head.

It ached, often.

It ends. All of it.

before time.

Everybody knows her now. ~the end of a day.



The dark of the little ship against the whitest

table in one of the rooms. It has the right sun

falling on it, from the window.

I allow myself to venture back

into the time where I found out-

to love is easier.

Erroneous methods where you went mechanical.

I do not look forward

to talk about sadness.

So I’d talk about the ship.

I never played with it.

It reminds one of the turquoise.

Losing its life. Popular voyages we never

even had time to listen.

A long time that it takes to reach any bay.

The luncheon.

The pretty women

A group of people with bitterness-

dead of dissipation

Men with long


An old head of them.

The prayers for

bounty. The tale of pitcairners of the Norfolk.

Small boats feeling nothing

ahead of the ship.

They think they’re small with no big Islands to head


It’s 3:00.

The afternoon passes like that.

With still beautiful sun

on the ship, kissing it “It is a memory of the big boat that disappeared.

Before time.

My father brought this little ship,

telling me about the many who

did not survive.

They hadn’t known the ship, the people.

Some even jumped off.

They needed to be free.

There were men and women who wanted to live.

But the ship couldn’t.” He kept it on the white table

few months back.

And, it’s been there.

So Ivory.

Beautiful, like

what love sounded and felt.

Priyanshi is a seventeen years old girl from Kashi. She studies humanities. She has been writing for past
two years. She likes to write about anything that involves details, mixed feelings, nature and experiment
in poetry.
Her words haven’t been published before. Hope you’d enjoy reading.
For better connectivity, you can find her on Instagram: @abeautifulturtle_

© Priyanshi