In Which Vikram Seth -- and Lethe Bashar -- Make Me Feel Silly In More Ways Than One

Today I left my current reading back
At home, quite by mistake, but, lucky me:
I am compulsive, keep a mighty stack
Of books always. In my bag I'd a key
To at least one untasted universe.
Thanks to the same dear friend who hooked me on
Cao Xuecin, 'twas a novel, writ in verse,
By Vikram Seth, on which I'm simply gone.
I'm sheepish to say that The Golden Gate
Was new to me before Lethe mentioned it.
I'm stunned at the perfection of this bait
For keeping me from other tasks. Its wit,
So sly yet sad, has me laughing out loud,
Much to comrades' confusion. Hope he's proud.

In Which I Dive Into The Story Of The Stone

An image now infests my teeming mind --
Not of the bugs that friends of mine expect,
But just one thing: a stone that one might find
Beside a road somewhere. 'Twas a reject
When Nu-Wa rebuilt heaven, but her hand
Imbued it with rare life. It's not unique
To Western tropes, this notion of the grand
Raised from the lowly, mighty from the weak.
Our psalms make it the capstone; Xuecin Cao
Gives it a soul and sends it through the world
To learn of love and pain and, perhaps, how
To make sense of illusions that have swirled
Around us all, right from our helpless birth.
The Story of the Stone roots me to Earth.