Thunderclouds in the sky,
Paths overgrown, streams in flood,
And you, innocent one, in the window,
Is soon repetitive:
It’s the improvised style
Wins my heart.
From The Absent Traveller: Prakrit Love Poetry from the Gathasaptasati of Satavahana Hala translated by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra.
Salt clogs the salt-cellar, mustard mildews, seameal curdles, bread won’t rise, curtains sag, doors stick, windows jam, ovens slow, kettles fur, rubber perishes, leaves rot, cobwebs lurk, garbage stinks, the carburetor sweats.
The infallibly stuck-in Beijing wok-handle comes unstuck.
From The Small Wild Goose Pagoda by Irwin Allan Sealy.
Here in the clouds, Jim could feel an unsettling sense of communion. Monsoon
mist spilled through the branches of deodar and cypress trees. No mountains were
visible, only a cowl of murky white, obscuring the ridgelines, the lake and the tops of the
taller trees. Jim’s hair was wet from the veil of moisture. The rain had stopped but his
rough cotton shirt felt damp and droplets of water clung to the blonde hairs on his arms.
From In The Jungles of the Night, A Novel about Jim Corbett by Stephen Alter.