My face,
My love,
Is not without its blemishes.
Out in the sun and the moon,
Tanned, and scarred.
No pretense.

My face,
My love,
Is adulterated.
By hundreds of imperfections,
By thousands of memories.
Daunted and haunted.

My face,
My love,
Is not the best in the world.
But it is one of the many.
Smiling amidst heartbreaks,
Crying and laughing,
With you or without you.

My face,
My love,
Is not without its blemishes,
Is adulterated,
Is big enough to see and be seen,
Yet not enough,
To love and be loved.

शंतनु ( Shantanu )

Frida Kahlo: Self-portrait with thorn necklace

The Box

When she opened the box,
She found some silences,
Silence, when we lay together,
Looking at the stars.
Silence, when we swam together,
Meditating amidst the flowing bodies.
Silence, after the fight,
Silence, of things unsaid.
Silence, that speaks about the past.
Silence, that reminds about the future
that never was.

When she opened the box,
She found some silences,
Silences of mourning.
Mourning of you and I.
Memories that stayed silent.
Memories that we made together,
And memories that died with us.
The box smells of death,
Death of you and I, of us.

– Shantanudescott_evans_the_connoisseur


Some things in life,
are meant to be,
incomplete, unfulfilled.

Like some friendships,
some stories,
some treks, some journeys.

Like some hearts,
some cigarettes,
my love, and this poem.



Happy World Poetry Day! Let there be resistance, let there be poetry!




Anguish of a like


Last time I checked,
We were still friends,
on Facebook.
I think, you still follow me,
On Instagram.

Has the separation,
Of our real lives,
Affected our virtual likes?
You ‘loved” my poems, my posts.
You shared them.
I ‘loved” your poems, your pictures
Admired them, commented on them.
Now, I just ‘like” them.
Fearing, ‘loving’ would be too much.

My posts, they go unacknowledged.
A hundred ‘loves” won’t suffice,
A single like from you.
Am I asking for too much?

– Shantanu