In Hell

Who conjured dreams for the devil when he fell in hell?

Hi friends,

I wanted to share a poem of my own today (since this is a personal blog of sorts after all). “In Hell” was originally published in Strange Horizons, but it was written about two years before that, and rejected countless times from different literary magazines.

I’ve written about 40 ghazals so far, and have been lucky enough to get over half of them published, but honestly it’s been much harder to place poems that use a strict traditional form as opposed to my other, free-flowing work. I’m not sure if that’s everyone’s experience, but that’s what I’ve found over the last half decade of submitting seriously.

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I also wanted to share this photo of mine that Karan Kapoor took when we were in Canada and I was wrapping up my undergrad at the University of Toronto. When he showed it to me, I kind of jumped because I thought it made me look like a witch, but then pretty soon I fell in love with the photo because, well, I guess I am some kinda witch. 🤷🏽‍♀️

It’s funny how you can go so long in your life hating the way you look in this or that angle, blaming the light, your own face, the pimples on your face, your clothes, how bad they fit, but then someone who loves you can make you love yourself too…sappy and weird, I know, but it’s true. Hopefully some of you can resonate!

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Alright, here’s the ghazal. I hope it brings you a modicum of the delight I felt in writing it. And for those of you who’d rather hear it…well, I did try to record something a few nights back. Enjoy (or be annoyed or despise it, whatever works, I’m happy for my art to evoke strong reactions either way!).

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In Hell

Who conjured dreams for the devil when he fell in hell?
He slept well because he knew there is no hell in hell. 
 
I do not know how I am cold around your burning 
violin—a song is but fire for those who dwell in hell.  
 
You are glowing like an angel lit by a red-light district.
Beg, borrow, bribe, or steal—prayers do not sell in hell.
 
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. Yell 
for California when there’s fire in heaven, call to book a hotel in hell.
 
Moon swells silver tides, a ventriloquist of the night. You aren’t able 
to recall slivers of our dream? Don’t worry, it will ring a bell in hell. 
 
Could you love a shell to death so it bombs in benedictions?
Kill the infidels if that helps you sleep, they will live well in hell.
 
An illusion is truth untouched of pain. Inside how many names can I lose
myself? Eventually all words waste magic—no one can spell in hell.
 
If I choose to be a prisoner it would be as the hum of your lungs.
Dying is not music nor god, the dead warn from their cell in hell.
 
I dried up your body’s water, so why are you compelled to forgive rivers?
“Your white womb, wet poems, it’s all here—including your smell—in hell.”
 
I live between sacrifice and shelter, come out when it’s dark enough
for sunrise. Convince me to leave. No, Shannan, there is no farewell in hell.

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