mapmaker
transubstantiating
wine
into wanton captivity
&
grain
not into bread or eternal life—
but into
hungers staying power
deriding
ancestral
warnings
the delusion of control
calling
to mind
another time
another day
another torment
when things were—
manageable
i’ve been a devil
drawn to the immutable
poetry church
unable to save myself
unwilling to save others
ignorant—
of the power in
brokenness
loud-talking
trash-man
speaking
in the
intrinsic
wisdom of the
tramp
transmogrification
in an alchemical
reaction of spirit
elemental
magic
of the
doomsaying
bottlemen
cartographer
in the
archipelago
of damnation
mapping truths
that can only be lived
that can only be gained
through experience
Gifts Ungiven
When I was 15, Zack de la Rocha told me with a whisper
Your anger is a gift
I didn’t understand what he was giving me
I didn’t understand what this meant
But I liked the way it sounded
Still do
His words have stayed with me through the decades
Branded into my heart
When I was 25, Vic Ruggiero told me
Every day the human race is filling me with more disgrace
This I understood
These words have been a mantra
As I’ve trudged in heavy boots
Through a cringe-worthy world
When I was 35, she asked me
Why don’t you write love poems?
Or poems about nature?
Darling,
Every poem I write is a love poem
While Mother slowly dies
Everything I do is an expression of love
Look around—
This place
The way we treat one another
The way we value
Imaginary assets &
Fiscal idolatry
Over bodies
Over trees
Is a maddening disgrace
That shames us all
The modern day Atlantis is in the
Pacific Ocean
It’s made of North American rubbish
It’s not getting any smaller
Toxic algae blooms
Choking the coastal beaches
It is said that by 2050
There will be more
Plastic in the oceans
Than fish
When Her last hummingbird
Fills the air with its final poetry
Will we regret what we’ve swapped?
When the last aquatic mammal
Choking on our excess
Curses us with life on a dead stone
Will we look to the sun?
So yeah,
This is a love poem
And I am angry
And it’s a gift
Unformed Creature
In Wappinger Falls New York there is old magic
A Buddhist Monastery at the bottom of Overlook Mountain
With tattered prayer flags and a silent stillness that is strangely comfortable
The temple was simple and ornate at the same time
Monks tend the needs of this sacred place
In crimson and mustard robes
With broken English through unbreakable smiles
Overlook Mountain is the southernmost peak of the Catskill Escarpment
It hides its own treasures
The hike is a couple hours up to the fire watchtower
Less time back down- gravities old trick
The purple sky reflects in mud puddles from autumns final rain showers
Hidden around a bend in the path
So it seemingly materializes out of nothing is the bones of an old hotel
Only the concrete remains
Maples, some older than me, grow out of the dirt where a grand entrance
Once welcomed the affluent
Once opulent fountains are full of filth and rain and garbage
Moss covered stone and stair and wall, wet and complacent.
Fireplaces, with remains, some vandals or lost souls
Seeking refuge in this abandoned place left behind
Spray paint scars the masonry
Bright, red, and vulgar
Much like my own scars
I feel akin to this place
Haunting, still, and broken
Up the mountain, there is a scenic overlook where five or so states can be seen.
A cliff bluff, dropping off into the void.
Conifers, as stately as anything human hands could build
Stretch to the Hudson River, where Amtrak trains look like toys and
Riverboats crawl along the thin vein of life through this valley of commerce.
Up here, where there are dates all the way back to the 1800’s carved into the rock shelf
None of these comforts can get to me
Just the strength of the wind and vertigo
Stirring something deep inside, something older than me
It is Beggars Night, the night before All Hallows’ Eve, 2014
The saints watching quietly
We shamble down the mountain in the moons embrace
Unafraid
Down the road from the Monastery lies another holy place
Hallowed ground
The Chapel of the Sacred Mirrors
Where a different kind of magic is born
It was Samhain
A woman
Name of Ka
Did a Serpent Feathers dance
That was something to behold
I was enthralled by the movements of this woman
Part angel
Part bird
All something you can’t put words to
The music was ubiquitous
When Ka finished her first dance
You could feel gooseflesh ebb across the room
Ka did another dance that was slower
Mesmerizing
When she finished her final dance
I looked around
All the woman in the circle
Surrounding the sacred space
She performed her craft were in tears
I felt nothing
There were men
Also moved to tears from the beauty
Or meaning in this dance
That I somehow couldn’t gather
Like an unformed creature
I missed some enchantment
Some brilliance
Right in front of my rapt gaze
It’s as if something hasn’t matured in me
Or has been neglected so long it’s now
Too rusty
Too corroded
To move
Too many moving parts
Unmoved for
Too many years.
Nathanael William Stolte is the author of three full length chapbooks, A Beggars Book of Poems,Bumblebee Petting Zoo, & Fools’ Song. He is the author of three mini chapbooks, 9 by N.W.S., 8 by N.W.S., & 7 by N.W.S. His poems have appeared in Ghost City Review, Guide to Kulture Journal, Five to One Magazine, & Plurality Press. He is a co-founder of CWPCollective Press. He is also co- founder of Cringe-Worthy Poets Collective, a small band of young poets attempting to make literary poetry more approachable for the youths’. He was voted best poet in Buffalo by Artvoice, “Best of Buffalo” in 2016. He is a madcap, D.I.Y. Buffalo bred & corn-fed poet.