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Stanley E. Banks [bio] |
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Personal Statement
As Avila’s Artist-in-Residence, my main objective is to bring visibility to the university’s Creative Writing emphasis in the English major. The writing of poetry, short stories, and plays is an extremely popular pursuit by more and more professionals, students, and the general public in the contemporary world. Even before coming to Avila, I took on the cause of broadening the audience for writers in all genres.
Further, as Artist-in-Residence, I am joining a great tradition of artists who believe strongly that the world needs and must know about the importance of the imagination as it relates to Creative Writing. As a result, I see myself as an ambassador for Avila to the community, state, and nation. I know Avila’s Creative Writing students will go on to be serious professional writers. Finally, it is my intention to create a reputation for Avila as a place that allows one’s creative muse to flourish
Awards & Recognition
| 2002 | Kansas City, Missouri Mayor’s Recognition Proclamation Award | |
| The United Minority Media Asso. Leadership Award from the Midwest- Southeast Regional Conf. |
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| The Special Exhibit of Stanley E. Banks’ Life and Literature at the Black Archives of Mid-America, Inc. | ||
| 2000 | Writers Place Award in Kansas City, Missouri | |
| 1989 | The National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship/Grant for Creative Writing | |
| 1987 | Future Playwrights of America Institute Playwriting Award from the University of Missouri-Kansas City | |
| 1981 | The Langston Hughes Prize For Poetry from BookMark Press, University of Missouri-Kansas City | |
| 1979 | The English Department Award at University of Missouri-Kansas City | |
Books / Publications
Anthologies
Poetry
| A Black And Blue Woman She hates being the head of the house, would rather blast the radio loud, let B.B. King pick her troubles away. When two policemen woke her in the middle of the night with news that her youngest son had been murdered, she got mad with B.B. King for twenty-four hours straight. Three months later her husband of twenty-five years was found bled to death with two bullet wounds in his throat and neck made by a Saturday Night Special. When a doctor called to tell her what had happened, she cursed him and the males in her family, slammed down the telephone receiver, ripped open a can of beer, fussed with God, pleaded for B.B. King to wail away her deep, dark blues. Carl Blown into two pieces by a blast from a sawed-off shotgun; that’s all his family can remember sometimes. Newspaper articles were written as though he were born a vicious street punk. But, this fragile gangster with a chipped front tooth and ears that seemed bigger than his head never got the chance to mature into a good citizen. In a photograph of him at age four, that his mother sleeps with under her pillow, he has vanilla ice cream and snot smeared from chin to forehead while walking gently with a load in the seat of his pants. |
America Are We Safe, Were We Ever Will we ever let America Be true to her huddled masses? Why do we glorify myths, stereotype the least amongst us, get outraged only by some atrocities? America, is a little starving, some homelessness, factions of racism tolerable? Are we safe among ourselves? Will a jail on every corner be enough? Can our pop musicians play our troubles into oblivion? Can we be truly free if a few do away with liberties they think unnecessary? Will it matter in the 21 st Century if the O’s in the ozone are massive, if the planet is a totally polluted place, if hazardous waste makes all of us other kinds of human beings? Should we count on scientists producing enough genetically perfect human beings? Maybe one day our lives will be fairy tales— the Brothers Grimm our gods, and even then can any of us guarantee that the bogeyman won’t visit. |