- – the wandering sentences are nothing but hell in a poem – địa ngục của bài thơ đôi khi chỉ là những dòng chữ lang thang [455]
- 4.0
- 12%
- 369
- 5 countable verses
- 6 bài thơ
- 7 verses – you stole my thoughts
- 8 Prayerful Odes
- 10 verses – poetry is a mother’s silence
- a black hole [495]
- a broken piece of me
- a few words
- A FIELD OF INHUMANITY
- A frog in a well
- A GAME THAT IS NO LONGER SAFE
- a geese feather tainted with your blood
- a land where even the weed flowered
- A MAN OLD ENOUGH TO EMBRACE A TOMB
- a map in the old house
- A poem about a spool of wool
- A POEM ABOUT NOTHING AT ALL
- a poem or just a rope
- a poem written for a poet devoted to freedom
- a poet died in the trees
- a poet that has never smiled
- a poet’s reward
- a red apple
- A STRAND OF BROWN HAIR
- A very small death – Emptiness – Abyss – I’ve dropped on the spot – Scrap paper – Brutality – My existence
- ABODE 1: FIRE – The octopus from the deep shall
- ABODE 2: WATER – What or where is the womb, can you show me?
- ABODE 3: LIGHT
- ABODE 4: LAND AND COUNTRY – how could they even think of dividing the womb
- ABODE 5: Where resides the graves of young sober men
- ABODE 6: WIND, DUST &MARRIAGE
- ABODE 7: THE HUMAN SPIRIT
- afraid of the virus
- after a lifetime of holding onto your futile tongue
- all poems were in sky blue
- all the women from my past keep calling me
- allegro is the tempo of time
- amongst the dreams
- an amateur
- AN AMAZING TAXI RIDE
- AN ANTHOLOGY of HUSBAND & WIFE – BÀI THƠ VỢ CHỒNG
- an anthology of my solitude
- AN EPIC ODE OF MY HOMELAND A HUNDRED YEARS AGO
- AN EPIC ODE OF SAIGON IN LOCKDOWN
- AN EPIC ODE OF UKRAINE
- AN EPIC POEM SHATTERED INTO WARM RAIN
- an interment in white
- An old lullaby
- and pain is the colour of clarity
- and the colours
- and the dead won’t be able to catch a glimpse
- and the man I saw was me
- and the wind pushes it around
- and you will be my light…
- and your hands have touched, the flower petals, of another summer
- April
- April is a fast passing shower
- as a poet
- as for the 31 souls who love you
- BABY, DON’T BE SO SURPRISED
- bài thơ: “chiều xuống trên bụng nhà thơ”*
- BÀI TRƯỜNG CA VALENTINE [498]
- because poetry is the most ordinary of things
- Beyond the storm and grass
- Big mean huge
- BLOOD – MÁU
- blood and flowers
- blood is no sweat
- Born in the year of the horse
- Bumping into an old friend from med school in the streets…
- CHRONICLES OF A DEAD PERSON LIVING STILL WITH THE TRUTH
- CHRONICLES OF A RIVER
- chừng nào nhớ hết nước mắt?
- cigarette smoke
- coffee cups full of daydreams
- Congratulations to Lê Vĩnh Tài, for writing your first poem in both Vietnamese and English
- CONTRITION
- Corona, the year 2030
- Count
- Dad, where does poetry come from
- damp and wet like the brain, the concept of words germinating
- Damp memories
- Dear lord, sobering is December!
- DEATH
- Death is an angel leading us into darkness [446]
- DEATH OR A CHANCE TO LOVE – KHI CÁI CHẾT ĐẾN HAY LÀ CƠ HỘI ĐỂ YÊU [408]
- DEATH REDUCES US TO SHRIVELLING RIGID SILENCE [447]
- December
- deception is not love
- defensive
- deliriously obsessed were the yellow flowers
- dissolving joy
- Do you need 5 people to love you or 5000 followers?
- does it help us to avoid the need to look at the virus?
- During Isolation
- “đi đêm”
- each layer is a forgotten dream
- Each time the afternoon pulls light into night
- EM [415]
- EM & ME [421]
- Envy
- even your mother didn’t get a chance to breastfeed you
- everything was wrapped in a glorious chill
- everything will be fine, if we never see each other again, right?
- Evident
- eyes, a star & you
- falls apart and die
- finally you touched on the absence of us, the gone years
- first day of school
- four poems
- fractured glass and rotten memories
- Freemann Equations
- from insecurities, we shall radiate glorious light
- garbage
- GOING THE DISTANCE
- Gone is Valentine
- Googling the word “mountain”
- Grass, rarely writes poetry of substance…
- H’MONG
- HEARSAY
- heart
- HEART BOUND IS AN EPIC TALE OF THE SEA | BÀI TRƯỜNG CA CỦA BIỂN TRONG LỒNG NGỰC [487]
- HER FINGERS AND YOUR HAND [491]
- her hair dripping
- HER NEEDLEWORK
- her next door neighbour
- her portraits
- her sunset
- HOA YÊN CƠ(poem)
- HOA YÊN CƠ(short story)
- Honestly when I gave you permission to write that poem [440]
- how could that one person be the entirety of the sunset
- How could you be so oblivious to their strength?
- How can a poet escape the spell?
- HOW DO MEMORIES DIE?
- how do you read the poem, when the poet’s bones are broken…
- How do you snuff out a candle?
- How does one chew to pieces the bones of a man?
- how funny
- how may she love without anxiety
- How O thou art or any being love
- How should one savour a woman?
- Humanised
- hypnotizing patriotism
- Hypocrites make a show of benevolence
- I am dead
- I am not like you
- I am steeped in colour
- I didn’t know what I did can you explain it to me
- I HAD TO LET YOU GO
- I have thrown out all the words in my grasp
- I heard your name [494]
- I INVITED HIM IN
- I miss the room with the scent of you
- I miss you, but you do not miss me.
- I reinvented myself
- I should have enough decency to stop loving her…
- I spoke their language
- I want to turn us into a poem…
- I was four, when I began to chase my dreams
- I was not born a poet
- I will learn how to love the fog
- I’m a nine storey building
- I’m curled up like a ball as the poem begins to fall into bits
- I’M HERE
- I’m still inside my mother’s womb
- I’m terrified of people and loneliness
- I’M WORRIED THAT TOMORROW YOU WILL SAY THAT I’M THE PAST
- I’m writing to you from an empty chair that has been filled
- I’ve been through the wilderness of nights
- IF A VERSE IS TRAPPED, WILL SILENCE BE ITS REPLY?
- if God had a colour, would He be green or red?
- if it weren’t for your heart
- If one can not write, Poetry can be nothing but a dream
- If only…
- if the electrical pole
- if you could go back in time
- if you could read my thoughts
- if you love
- If you see the poem as feathers of a bird
- if you were a poem
- imposter
- in a house full of cobweb
- In another lifetime, you are my home.
- in kisses, she’s proficient
- In today’s time, should poetry be “hard” to read or “hard” to post?
- INCONSEQUENTIAL
- is Poetry male or female
- it turns out you’re a rat
- it’s all in your head
- it’s late, or is there still a chance someone might turn u
- it’s simple, it’s the one by our side
- it’s twisted, hence, it might be the reason why you couldn’t see
- Justice
- kneel
- Knock on the Door
- Learning how to love
- LIFE ON WHITE PIECES OF PAPER
- like how now and then the stocks hit rock bottom
- like the waves in your room, one moonlit night. in waves, rising
- loneliness
- lonely are the butterflies
- long ago in the mountain
- love
- love is no deception
- Mama, now that I’m old enough
- May I kiss you
- ME [417]
- me wishing for more rain
- Mnong
- MƯỜI BÀI THƠ
- mười hai bài
- my country is an old book
- MY LIFE
- never fall in love with a poet
- Night
- NIGHT & THE CONTINUING FALLING VERSES OF…
- they’re tall because we’re on our knees (1)
- a bird in folklore (2)
- a poem disappeared into a hole (3)
- there’s no possible point of view which could surpass the summer (4)
- gosh the green grass, aching at the foot of the horizon (5)
- death aren’t rows of furrows in the field (6)
- not a warden (7)
- days like these, poetry is a scar at the heart of the people (8)
- you will touch the love of this nation (9)
- April (10)
- without the vernacular, the poem has to wave its arms around dancing (11)
- don’t write sad poetry, and yearn for its light (12)
- even the moonlight was something in her imagination (14)
- her heart is so small, it’s a black hole forever sound within my soul (15)
- night is the outside falling (16)
- that’s where the mountain viewed the sea (17)
- listen to poetry as you would listen to the rain (18)
- a pantheon of meaning (20)
- nightfall and all I want
- no one has fingers small or light enough to cause so much pain
- no one has the rights to absolution
- No reform, just a poem for Vũ
- Not a grave
- not because you’re missing in action
- Not just about the Paracel – Spratly islands
- not poison
- Not Us..
- November yellows flying
- now and then the poet must ponder the state of the nation
- NYE
- often by the sea
- oh heavenly Father
- Oh Sleep
- ONE CLICK ON MY MOUSE
- one lonely hand
- once they have learned how to love
- once you’re ready to shine
- only the sunrise was a diluted orange
- or has the wind turned you into tears
- ORDER IN PLACE OF NOTHINGNESS
- our sensitive nature, might, pride
- out by the river
- Out, from isolation
- “out of nothing is nothingness…”
- over the weight of an ellipsis
- pain is a metamorphosis
- past seeing to fear
- perhaps
- Perhaps it is her way of warning you about what you can / cannot get from poetry.
- PERHAPS I’VE SUNK SO DEEP INTO THE SEA I’VE LOST MY MEMORY
- photograph
- Please return the stars back to their rightful place
- POEMS IN A YEARBOOK
- Poetry
- poetry did, in a hotel slept with a man
- poetry is like the idea of nothing, a waste of time
- Poetry. it’s the accompanying shadow
- Poetry waiting for a merit award
- Poetry is like a rose
- POETS ARE NOT PHILOSOPHERS
- poverty is black
- practising line breaks(create the enjambment):
- proclaim me naught as mother
- pulled out
- pungent is the allure of a storm
- rain
- rain and sunlight home to hum the melodies
- rain, the ceaseless rainy days
- raindrop
- rapid antigen test, an edifice in paradise [492]
- reading Vietnamese poetry
- red roses, steeped in blood
- reformed
- REMINISCING IS ALL I HAVE LEFT WHEN I CAN NO LONGER DREAM
- requiem
- resolutions without a limit
- Return when, the un-besieged written verses?
- sadness – nỗi buồn
- scattering ambulances amongst the howls of the dead
- scent
- SHE BUILDS A VESSEL FOR THE FLOOD [416]
- she is a happy ending
- SHE LENT YOU A BOOK ONCE
- SHE SAID THAT SHE STILL HAS A MOTHER…
- she took her shoes off
- She untied each and every ridiculous knot in Poetry
- sitting corpses
- Slander
- sleep, sweet dream, sleep – BÀI TRƯỜNG CA EM
- sleep tear(s)
- Slowly, Poetry is dying
- so far it’s impossible to know
- soldiers sleeping
- solve the mind boggling sum
- “someone walked past the door possibly”*
- sowing the deletion of the past
- still a dollar in my pocket
- still causing twists and turns in each night’s dream
- Summon the rain
- tám bài thơ
- Tears are as old as the trees
- TẾT
- THE APPEARANCE OF A STRANGE CREATURE IN THE FIELD
- the body part factory
- the book of poems lost in Saigon
- The centuries of karma
- The Chư Mang Vernacular
- The concealed circling darkness
- the dark thoughts
- the discarded votes of a nation
- the dissertation of a rose
- the evidence
- the faint yellow of sunlight from the past [497]
- the finite and the infinite
- the formation of a drop of blood
- the leaning tower
- The leaves lying around on the ground counting the nights in red
- the light
- the light dawning on your face
- THE LOGIC OF A DREAM
- THE LOST SCENT
- the moment I greeted my mother to say goodbye
- The Moon, She
- the morning after pill
- the muse
- The Nation shall call upon the poet
- the ode
- the old
- THE OLD COMPUTER
- The only guiding light left is Kindness.
- the pain never budging
- the poem
- the poem, a knotted mess
- the poem has an inessential “yet”
- the poem, it will always surpass the aptitude of the poet
- the poem, it cried
- the poem, it’s already the past
- the poem, it’s not an owl
- the poem reacquainted with the lies
- the poem you’re coveting
- the poet
- the quiet
- the reality of transpired journeys
- THE SACRED DEER [445]
- the scent of old books
- the scent of you
- The sea asked the writer
- THE SEA IS STARVING AND I’M DROWNING
- the sea of dreams
- the sea talks about everything else
- the second hand on the watch
- THE SHORTEST STORY
- THE SMALL THINGS
- the smell of rats, mice roasting
- the smile and tears
- the solemn poem
- the storm in us
- THE THICK WOOLEN JUMPER
- the things he took with him
- the unhealable open wound
- the unimaginable, dust, I will become
- The United States will always be the United States of America
- the verse creating a storm
- THE VERSE THROWING A SHOE
- the virus’ ode
- the virus doesn’t care
- the watch
- THE WAY A STRAWBERRY BLEED
- the way baby poses in the middle of the night…
- the white clouds’ last dream
- the world, now small in your eyes
- the words in gold
- THE YEAR BEGAN WITH A SHORT STORY – TRUYỆN NGẮN THÁNG GIÊNG [460]
- The year coming to an end
- the young poet
- There were only two people in isolation
- there will always be more of the poor than the rich
- There’s still one way
- THEY HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT [496]
- they held your hand and kissed you on the lips
- this is not a poem
- this world is a cave
- Thơ ngày 6
- those amongst you have disappeared into the dark
- those are the reasons the haiku has forever doubled in length
- Threats
- three pillars turning into one phallic symbol
- TIBET
- timelessly love shall belong to us
- trilogy
- TRUTHS YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN, LOVE
- two poems
- UNSPOKEN WORDS AND LOVE LOST
- useless aspiration
- vessel of death
- Virus
- we all know our feet are grounded
- we have turned into one lonely night
- we open the door and welcome the ghosts
- we will return
- we will ride the waves
- we write in silence
- We’re the uneducated adults
- WHAT HAS FALLEN APART, DAMP AND WET LEFT BEHIND IN THE DARK
- What would be considered as a tragedy, to a poet?
- When he’s quiet, he’s thoughtful. When she’s quiet, she’s plotting something.
- when loneliness is a ghost
- when poetry ignites
- when sadness is still too young on Christmas eve
- when she dies slowly in her sleep
- when sugar is no longer sweet
- when the birds bark
- when the clouds are weighed down by pain
- when the poem isn’t essential
- when there’s no one at home
- when you look in the mirror
- WHEN YOU’RE ALONE IN YOUR ROOM [454]
- when you’re a poet, you’re a thief
- When you’re fifty eight
- WHERE IS THIS POETRY
- where people are being born
- Who should I be?
- Why won’t it hold more?
- Why not you, my love, but Sapa?
- winter’s eve
- within the aspirations of the rain
- without a voice
- words of a wheat field
- wrapped in a sheet of plastic
- writing poetry is like splitting wood
- WRITING TO VỸ AT THE END OF THE YEAR [493]
- wrong
- yeah, the end of the year is exhausting
- you and him, the rain and sadness
- you are a fearless failure
- You are my nicotine addiction
- you enjoy watching me
- you have been living in a dead body, now your body is alive because of me
- you have tattooed on your chest the letter F
- you made the mistake of turning darkness into light
- you put up with a grain of sunlight
- you saw the beauty of the young woman
- you think I’m done
- You’re a fungi
- you’re a poem, unlike any other
- YOU’RE HOME AND A VERSION OF THE POEM SNAPPED
- you’re like a pair of wings a sad butterfly
- you’re not a butterfly
- you’re not an alcoholic
- You’re washed away. Along with the past.
- your beauty resides in tears
- your lips bloomed like a flower
- your lips, mine
- YOUR LOVELY BATTLE WITH THE LUXURIOUS LIFE OF A SAD BILLIONAIRE…
Lê Vĩnh Tài, the poet and translator born in 1966 in Buon Ma Thuot, Daklak, Vietnam. The retired doctor is still a resident of the Western Highlands and a businessman in Buon Ma Thuot.
Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm, the blogger, poet, and translator, was born in 1971 in Phu Nhuan, Saigon, Vietnam. The pharmacist currently lives and works in Western Sydney, Australia.
Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm 
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