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


अपुरी (Incomplete)


कविता लिहिली,अर्धवटच..
वाटले की तू येशील, पूर्ण करशील.
तुला सांगितले पण बघ.
शब्द कळले नसावे, म्हणून भाषांतर केले..
कविता ऐकवली, अर्धवटच..

अपेक्षेने थांबलो होतो, चातकासारखा..
की तू येशील,
आणि त्या कागदावर,
शब्दांचा अमृत वर्षाव करशील.

मी दुष्काळातच रमतो आहे, अजुनही.
शब्द साठले बघ, आटले बघ.
कागदावर शाई अजुनही ओलीच आहे.
ते शब्दही व्याकुळ असतील.
की केव्हा त्यांचा अर्थ पूर्ण होईल.
की ते ही माझ्या आयुष्यासारखेच राहतील,

– शंतनु


Wrote a poem, incomplete..
Wished you would come, complete it.
I told you about it,
Translated the words,
Hoping you would understand.
Narrated the poem, incomplete..

Waited for you,
Hoped you would come,
And pour your magical words,
On that paper.

I am entangled in a drought, still.
See, even the words have dried up.
The ink on that paper is still wet.
Even those words must be eager,
Wondering when would they give meaning to the poem.
Or would they, like my life, be rendered,

– Shantanu




The Connoisseur

In a world defined by conventions,

we are anomalies.

You and I, it’s an anomaly.

Hope you find your voice,

to defy this order.

Hope you find your poetry,

to protest, to say the words unsaid.

And about me,,

I wish I’ll be the connoisseur.



D. Scott Evans – The Connoisseur




I am trying,
Trying to write a poem.
Hoping it’ll convey,
Some words unsaid.

In the long walks,
On those cold nights.
Treading on carpet, marble and grass.
Finding our way,
Contemplating life, people, and friendships.
Talking, drunk and high,
Sharing nightmares,
On those sleepless nights.
Barging into rooms,
Sharing chocolates, chips, and love.
Laying on one bed, lazily,
Or watching movies,
Amidst some adventures,
And misadventures.

Eternal return is a delusion.
Moment’s gone.
Life will not come back.
But memories will.
And hope you remember me,
And hope you miss me.
‘Cause I miss you.
‘Cause I love you.

– Shantanu


Read me a poem, will you?
In your presence,
In your voice.
The joys and the pain,
Amidst the sun and the rain.

Soon, you said.
I’m still waiting.
Nights are sleepless, you said,
And winters are cold.
I wait, in the cold winter,
And the same night sky.
Longing to hear,
Your words, your magic.

Now instead, I wrote a poem,
And it feels incomplete.
It’s not magical, but real.
I’m still waiting.
Come, complete it.
Fill it with magic, make it surreal.

– Shantanu


तुझी कविता

Sunset: Guhagar Beach, Maharashtra, India. Copr. Shantanu Gharpure
 मी तिथे थांबलो होतो,
खोळम्बलो होतो, व्याकुळ होतो.
भेटशील, मिठी मारशील
आठवून होतो तो शेवटचा निरोप,
डोळ्यात पाणी,
खूप बोलायचे होते,
पण कंठाने परवानगी दिली नाही.
शेवटचे का होईना,
पुन्हा तुझी कविता ऐकायची होती,
पण काळाने परवानगी दिली नाही.
मी थांबलो होतो बघ,
तुझी वाट पाहत.
त्या गर्दीत, तू येशील,
असा डोळा लावत.
तू नाही आलीस,
आणि मी पण माझ्या वाटेल निघालो.
आता तू कुठे, आणि मी कुठे.
तू कविता लिहतेस,मला उमगते, कळते.
आणि मी ही कविता लिहतो,
पण ती तुला कळत नाही.
– शंतनु

Prost Neu Jahr!

Let hope win over the agony,
This too shall pass.
This night, and the new year.
What would be left are,
The memories.
Memories of what we loved, whom we loved.
Love, nevertheless of the results.
Love, because we don’t know what else to do.
Love, because the world needs it.
Love, and be loved.
Let there be love, let there be light, let there be sanity.

Sam’s speech still resonates.
‘ There’s some good in this world,
And it’s worth fighting for.’

Let this be year of hope and love. Happy new year 2017.

The voice inside

I hear, I listen

To the voice inside that cries out.

The voice that has been shut,

for days, for years,.

It wants me to blurt everything out.

Wants somebody to acknowledge,

to hear, to listen.


It fears being alone.

It is tired talking to just me,

for a bit too long.

I find it maddening sometimes,

consoling myself,

crying myself to sleep.

Promising that everything,

will be okay.

Waking up the next day,

to the same loneliness,

that haunted it.


I try, to do some thing,

talk, pretend to listen,

pretend that I am fine.

Occasionally, I do not pretend.

The voice sometimes blurts it out.

I pretend, pretend that I am a winner.

Pretend I know things,

Read more to know more.

Read to convince the voice inside,

that all is well.

Try to shut it,

Because all it does is call me a loser.


I lay on bed, tired.

Check my mobile, read messages,

or engage in some discussion on Facebook.

To distract a bit,

To live a bit, albeit virtually.

I sleep, and,

I wake up the next day,

to the same loneliness,

that haunts it, that haunts me.