Michael Varga

The poem you’re about to read is not a quiet reflection—it’s a flare shot into the night. It emerges from a moment when...

In the scarred cheeks of an African tribe, Flashing to the rhythms of a goatskin drum, Far from America, I learned to listen...

So many owner-less animals, They forage among broken bricks. Were they soldiers’ pets at the base? Are those troops still fighting or laid...

At the moment of veraison* We don’t yet know how sour Is the fruit. A far Trumped tower Makes the grapes appear appetizing....

Storms are a delight for my albatross. This diver sails giddy on gusts, soaring over volcanoes Threatening to erupt, unspooling lava fields That...

After you depart, I act on your request: To a mountaintop or to the Ganges. To seek a Somewhere for ashes to scatter....

War fused us. Vietnam left you leery of spider holes; Chad left me mourning a midnight escape. But poets don’t thrive in fear...

A sculptor shares his Thunder Bunny. The Blueness of it hints of hidden graces. Pedestrians pass it daily, hardly looking, And to them,...

Hot beams curl ‘round horses’ flanks, Bright arcs branded deep into fly-buzzed flesh, And as I tread afraid a camel-trader sketches A sign...

When Black poets congregate I try to hide the gift Pocketed out of Africa. Like a heavy phallus, Smooth and used to pounding...