I am ashamed to confess that I had to read Truyện Kiều in English in order to understand Nguyễn Du’s epic poem—thanks to the skillful translation from Vương Thanh. I tried to read Vietnamese several times, but I gave up on the poetic language. Now that I know the story, I will go back to read Vietnamese.

You can read both the original version as well as the English translation right on a sample webpage I designed to showcase Vietnamese typography. I took 6,508 lines of poetry (Vietnamese and English) and put them all in one single webpage. That is the power of the web. I read it on my iPhone, but you can read it on any of your favorite device.

Crystal Wilkinson’s Perfect Black is a powerful, approachable collection. From family to racism to food, Wilkinson writes with an authoritative Black voice. I digged a handful of her poems, but “Praise Song for the Kitchen Ghosts” is such a mouth-watering essay on food. I also love the typesetting and illustrations in this book.

I didn’t get most of the poems. I am not sure what to make of them. I don’t have the words to describe them. I just couldn’t connect. Maybe I should reread the series again.

I didn’t understand much from this collection. Though I enjoyed “To My Mother’s Father.” McCrae’s writing requires slow reading and re-reading. I tend to just read through them to find something I can share on my blog.

A sensual, emotional collection, Ama Codjoe’s Bluest Nude delves into sex, grief, and beauty. Her writing is descriptive, provocative, and yet accessible. I understand and love quite a few pieces in here.

Another collection from a Pulitzer Prize-winning author I couldn’t understand. I was just reading words and couldn’t make sense of the poems. My poetry reading is not improving. I love the typesetting though.

Reading Jorie Graham’s collection is like pouring water on a duck’s head. Nothing stuck. Graham is a professor at Harvard University and winner of the Pulitzer Prize; therefore, not understanding her work is my own fault.

Read it but didn’t get it. The collection was hard for me to understand with the exception of “Still Life with SARS-CoV-2”:

and then what
and then
what, what
then

I love her opening poem titled “I Was Minor” and I thought I was in for a treat. Unfortunately, I didn’t get many of her poems from this collection. It’s my own fault—not the author. I am still learning to read poetry.

Leave your phone and your digital devices inside. Pick up John Freeman’s Wind, Tree and head outside. Through the force and beauty of nature, Freeman writes about life, loss, and love through narrative lyric and meditative pulse. My favorite pieces include “Nothing to Declare,” “Windward,” “Icicle,” and “Still.”