"I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..."
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TRINA STOLEC writes a confessionsal poem develops from her conversational tone and her reader's acceptance of the ordinary - writing notes. We are drawn almost casually to an extraordianry conclusion.
TRINA STOLEC knows about audience: she has performed her poetry at numerous places since 1985. I've had more than 200 poems published in over 50 small press zines, and I'm the front-person for the performance art band Logic Alley whose second CD of spoken word tunes, "Diabolical Songs" is currently available.


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TRINA STOLEC
Confession			
I'll confess – I am a note-writer. I don't think it's a poet's curse as much as a psychotic-tick. I find notes telling my family I went to the store three years ago; the start of 8 poems with random phrases scrawled down the edges; directions to a fouth-of-july party that I didn't go to; 9 identical mathematical equations on separate pages written sideways; the three Christmas lists I wrote 2 years ago. And all that was in one notebook. I'm afraid to look in the others. I've decided it's rooted in summer camp – they make you put your name on everything you own. You don't have to remember what's yours; you can use that memory-capacity-space for important things like archery. But, see, if you write yourself a note with the finer points of archery, you can rereuse that memory-capacity-space for a cookie recipe. And if you write yourself a note with the cookie recipe, you can rerereuse that memory-capacity-space for your home address. And if you write yourself a note... even the road to addictive psychosis is paved with good intentions.

©2006 TRINA STOLEC

poet: TRINA STOLEC DEANNA MASCLE poet: RALPH MONDAY PoetryRepairShop navigation
"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."
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Answers About Writing
DEANNA MASCLE has been teaching and writing professionally for more than 20 years.

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DEANNA MASCLE
Writing: Is it a Skill, Craft, or Gift			

Whenever you gather writers together they talk about writing. 
	
There are many different types of writers. Those who prefer to 
compose in long-hand or can only write on an old-fashioned 
manual typewriter. Those who write to music, demand complete 
silence, or create best surrounded by noise. You have the writers 
who must plan and outline before they can begin and those who 
find even talking about a project before it is drafted can stifle 
their creativity. But one of the most controversial divisions 
among writers is about whether writing is a skill, craft, or gift. 

I admit that I like to stir the fire a bit because I can argue all 
three points and depending on how my own writing is going 
at the moment I may find that one viewpoint carries more 
weight for me personally. 

I know as a teacher of writing that writing is a skill. I have 
taken people, young and old, who loathed writing and believed 
they would never be able to write -- and provided them with 
basic tips and tools to become good basic writers. I have taken 
good basic writers and given them the support and direction 
they've needed to become skilled writers. I've watched skilled 
writers with practice and determination become proficient 
writers. I have seen this in the classroom, at writing conferences, 
and in newsrooms. I have witnessed this transformation enough 
to know that writing is a skill that can be taught and a skill that 
can be learned. 

I know as a writer, editor, and reader that writing is a craft. 
As the definition reads to craft is "to make or produce with 
care, skill, or ingenuity". A skilled writer can capture our 
interest and convey information, but a writer can also craft 
a story, poem, or essay that touches our emotions as well 
as our brains. For those who have gone beyond simply 
skilled to be craftsmen and craftswomen they can rely on 
their knowledge, experience, and instinct to create writing 
that does more than simply delivers -- it also sings. 

I know as a writer and reader that writing is a gift. Some 
writers simply possess a special quality that allows them 
to step beyond and above the huddled masses. For some 
it is a special ability to shape words into images and ideas 
and for some it is a unique vision of this world (or another) 
that speaks to our souls in a way others cannot. 

Are writers born or made? Many people argue that some 
gifted writers are born, but I am not convinced. Perhaps 
you could have some predisposition but I believe that 
writers are made. They are made in the rocking chair 
when Mother reads "Goodnight, Moon"; they are made 
under the cover with a flashlight when you simply must 
finish "The Hobbit" for the first time; they are made when 
you proudly pocket your first library card; they are made 
when you fill your first notebook; they are made when you 
submit your first poem, article or story for publication; they 
are made when you receive your first rejection; and they 
are made when you turn the computer on every day to 
write. 

I believe some writers are supremely gifted but even so 
does that mean it was a gift given to them whole or was 
it a gift developed through years of reading, writing, talking,
and thinking about words? 

So, I believe, writing is all three -- a skill, a craft, and a gift. 
Some writers find their ability spans all three while others 
never progress past the level of skill. 
			

©2006 DEANNA MASCLE

poet: TRINA STOLEC DEANNA MASCLE poet: RALPH MONDAY
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RALPH MONDAY
The Devil's Makeup
		
Up the long wooder stair, bubbles In my head I tread toward the Circe Sound, a hound in heat, I never miss A beat. Five times I turn to leave; three times I momentarily grieve. Then I am told by the angel riding my shoulder To take heart, ascend the boulder. Which I do, fearless fool, feeling the Throbbing tool in my head that leads Me instead into the dark bar. One black beer, barkeep. The foam on the edge like seawaves at night; The tongue cool glistens, pounding drone: Some unknown music a s'Til tone That beckons the long belighted dawn A century away. 'Til I find her black sleekness, A German torpedo, stiletto cool, heat seeking The steel plates, buttery turned gaze, a half Remembrance of Odyssean sirens. I know better than this--s'Til, but one kiss That undermined Troy, a toy best left unplayed. Made that decision with modern music, Stones, A mind phone without conscious connection. She wore the Devil's makeup: hair like a blistered Dream, skin creamed by too many nights, various Personal fights, puppies stuck through her top Swirled by the black mop of shattered dreams. I approached and said hello. She didn't say no. Smiled the Eden tree. We touched fingers, shared a drink. The night, would of course, be a disaster. After I would try to forget. Pray and pray, cherish my idols. However in the beginning is the ending. All I thought of was Dante cycles.

©2006 RALPH MONDAY

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poet: TRINA STOLEC DEANNA MASCLE poet: RALPH MONDAY
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