Sharif’s poems are simple yet beyond my comprehension. I had to read her collection twice to understand some of her works including “Social Skills Training,” “He, Too,” and “Patronage.” I don’t quite understand “Without Which,” in which she uses lots of closing brackets (“]]”). I would love to audit her class if I have the opportunity. Here’s her exchange with an officer in “He, Too”:

Upon my return to the US,
he asks my occupation. Teacher.

What do you teach?
Poetry.

I hate poetry, the officer says,
I only like writing
where you can make an argument.

Anything he asks, I must answer.
This, too, he likes.

I don’t tell him
he will be in a poem
where the argument will be

anti-American.

I place him here, puffy,
pink, ringed in plexi, pleased

with his own wit and spittle.
Saving the argument
I am let in

I am let in until

Otsuka’s opening paragraph is so damn good, I have to quote in full. She writes about “The Underground Pool”:

The pool is located deep underground, in a large cavernous chamber many feet beneath the streets of our town. Some of us come here because we are injured, and need to heal. We suffer from bad backs, fallen arches, shattered dreams, broken hearts, anxiety, melancholia, anhedonia, the usual above-ground afflictions. Others of us are employed at the college nearby and prefer to take our lunch breaks down below, in the waters, far away from the harsh glares of our colleagues and screens. Some of us come here to escape, if only for an hour, our disappointing marriages on land. Many of us live in the neighborhood and simply love to swim. One of us—Alice, a retired lab technician now in the early stages of dementia—comes here because she always has. And even though she may not remember the combination to her locker or where she put her towel, the moment she slips into the water she knows what to do. Her stroke is long and fluid, her kick is strong, her mind clear. “Up there,” she says, “I’m just another little old lady. But down here, at the pool, I’m myself.”

After the pool shuts down, Otsuka shifts her focus on Alice who suffers from her deteriorating dementia. Even though the change is quite disrupting, the stories comes out poignant and heartbreaking. Otsuka’s writing is just masterful—as you can already tell from her opening paragraph. It’s a slim, sensational read.

Rebecca Foust’s collection in Only is achingly touching, especially when she writes about her children. She shares the birth of her son:

my son was born. The cord was torn
too soon, so they cut off

his head to save his heart. He lived
for a long time.

I am not quite sure what she meant by “so they cut off his head to save his heart.” My other favorite poems in this collection include “Thirteen,” “Self-Improvement,” “Collaborator,” and “Abeyance.”

Elisa Gabbert’s Normal Distance is accessible and relatable, especially when writes about suffering, death, and boredom. I am still a novice poetry reader, which means I don’t understand everything I read, but I enjoyed the entire collection, in particular: “About Suffering,” “New Theories on Boredom,” “That to Philosophize Is to Learn to Die,” and “Madness.” Her writing is clear, lyrical, and delightful.

Tập tiểu luận của nhà văn Hồ Anh Thái được chia ra làm ba phần: đời sống, điện ảnh, và văn chương. Đọc thì cũng được nhưng hơi bị ngán. Tôi không hẳn không đồng ý với những cái nhìn của ông. Chỉ không thích hợp với cách nhận xét và phê bình của tác giả. Không rõ nguyên nhân ra sao. Nếu nói ông khắc khe cũng không đúng, tự cao cũng không đúng, hoặc khen nội chê ngoại cũng không hẳn. Tóm lại không thích cũng không ghét cách viết của ông và đương nhiên tôi tôn trọng những góc nhìn của ông.

Danielle Badra’s first full-length collection is beautifully heartbreaking as she writes candidly about the loss of her sister. “The Short Way,” in particular, brings tears to my eyes as the image reminds me of my own mother’s last day on earth in ICU. I also love the lyrical beauty in “Pianissimo.” Furthermore, Badra received an MFA from George Mason University.

I must admit. I enjoyed reading Stevenson’s Human Resources even though I didn’t understand everything she has written. Her poems are modern, lyrical, and accessible. I appreciate “Work From Home” and many more if I re-read them again, which I will since it is a slim collection.

I was having trouble keeping up with the Dương women in Carolyn Huỳnh’s debut novel. They were dramatic, emotional, and obnoxious. As I read deeper, I began to embrace the messiness of the characters and let Huỳnh untangled her tales, in which she brought together the stories of multigenerational Vietnamese women. It’s an engaging, heartfelt, and hilarious read. Keep up the great work, Ms. Huỳnh.

Grace Li’s debut novel revolves around five Chinese-American ivy-league students who were willing to risk their future to rob museums around the world. In addition to the 50-million-dollar reward, their mission was to return the fountainheads back to China. Even though Li’s writing was concise and easy to follow, this book took me a month to finish. My heart was not in the heist story; therefore, I took a passive approach. Nevertheless, it was a good read on the Chinese-American experience. I passed it on to my oldest son,

By the way, Li’s résumé is quite impressive:

Grace D. Li grew up in Pearland, Texas, and is a graduate of Duke University, where she studied biology and creative writing. She lives in Northern California and attends medical school at Stanford University. Portrait of a Thief is her debut novel and is currently in development at Netflix, with Grace serving as an executive producer of the series.

Reading Forché’s poems felt like learning to read English when I first came to America. I read the words but didn’t understand the meaning. Needless to say, I was lost in a poetry of of words. The only poem I understood is “Hue: From a Notebook.”