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The Invisible Bear POETRY & VISUAL ART REVIEW

2015, Volume One Durham, North Carolina


The Invisible Bear POETRY & VISUAL ART REVIEW

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF CONTENT EDITORS

Jessica Q. Stark David Dulceany I. Augustus Durham Zoë Eckman Brendan Higgins Sonia Nayak Kushneir Daniel Stark

COVER ART “TRAVELER”

Gail Weissman

© 2015

Summer 2015, Vol. 1

The Invisible Bear is published annually in the summer. Address all correspondence to The Invisible Bear Attn: Jessica Q. Stark, 328 Allen Building, Duke University, Durham, NC, 27708. Single copies $5.95. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to The Invisible Bear Attn: Jessica Q. Stark, 328 Allen Building, Duke University, Durham, NC, 27708. All rights reserved by the authors; all poems and artworks in the magazine are works of imagination. The Invisible Bear features poetry, visual art, and occasional scholarly criticism or interviews. We do not accept hard copy submissions. Please submit according to our guidelines on our website to thebearinvisible@gmail.com. The Invisible Bear accepts simultaneous submissions, but all work must be previously unpublished. The Invisible Bear is partially supported by annual funds affiliated with Duke University’s English department graduate poetry working group. For more information about The Invisible Bear and submission guidelines, please visit:

www.theinvisiblebear.com


CONTENTS ART 8

Black Elk Speaks Gail Weissman

12

The Beast Awakens Night Day Jesse Taylor

17

Portland, Oregon Jesse Dunlap

20

Crib series Kristin Grey Apple

24

Palmer’s Gift Gail Weissman

27

A Big Tree Gail Weissman

30

Franklin Ave C Stop Jesse Dunlap

33

Cave Light Gail Weissman

36

Artist Spotlight: Gail Weissman

POETRY 9

03.07.14 – 03.16.14 George Life

10 Door-to-Door AJ Urquidi 11

LJ Seeks CM Buck Weiss


13

Billboard Dad Annie Paradis

14-15 In the Heart of Life Laura Lee Washburn 16 Perfection Bradley Allf 18

Freshwater Fish Auzelle Jones

18

Practical Advice for Practical Girls (No Swells) Auzelle Jones

19 Willful Laura Lee Washburn 21-23 Through the Devilwood (Excerpt) Andrea Applebee 24 Matins Zack Rearick 25-26 Cosmography Caleb Agnew 28-29 Portrait of the Author Melissa Fite Johnson 31

Frivolous Pleasures, Indolence, Tenderness, Unhappiness Erik Noonan

31

Silk Garden Erik Noonan

32-33 The Bearing of Faceless Things Daniel Sauve-Rogan 34 Beachcombing Scott T. Starbuck 35

Icarus in Space Caleb Agnew


EDITOR’S NOTE First, I’d like to thank my fellow editors for their time and energy helping to put this project together throughout the year. We are all full-time graduate students and the product you see before you developed from a Herculean effort of collaboratively reading submissions and proofing in our downtime throughout the academic year. I cannot thank them enough for the laughs and the work that went into the final selections for this issue. Although a theme was not envisioned prior to our call for submissions, you might notice an emerging thread among our final selections—one that I believe speaks significantly to the inauguration of this project, to the present time of social and political uncertainty, to the related task of artful creation, and to the sometimes painful particularities of shared, human experience. To me, a strong desire to connect—to each other, to space, to memory and archive—seductively dwells in the corners of our selections for this volume. To love, to die, to live as human. How we approach these actions in our lives relies so fervently on expectations of how to connect and sometimes disconnect from other human lives, from familiar places, or even cherished objects. What art can so aptly provide us, however, swells beyond the parameters of this hastily conceived polarity of connection versus departure. What I see emerge from the pages of this first issue reflects as much as it delicately complicates the relationships involved with human connection. How we might entertain the simultaneity of human connection amid solitude, of detachment without resentment, and finally, that we might foster rather than fear love despite the ever-present risk of loss. These are just a few of the difficult themes with which I usher in the first issue of The Invisible Bear. I invite you to sit with them while you read. And feel free to connect, or otherwise: thebearinvisible@gmail.com Warmly, Jessica Q. Stark Editor-in-Chief The Invisible Bear


Black Elk Speaks Gail Weissman

8


03.07.14 – 03.16.14 George Life

the next the second of the two and all this the greeting and the words

we spoke between the two of us myself and the guide that which is

in

which

all this

in the language of empire the moral stance in

which the question of the future presents

itself so that by entering the

archive one adds to it and by adding to it

o lord

all this

archives are burnt

o but it

concerned thee

in the language of empire in most revolutions in the empire of language they are the records

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Lesson learned— Door-to-Door condense your figure AJ Urquidi and you configure your function to loosen a trigger. Nice job destroying the mineshaft from which you crawled, devil knows why you’ll never tell the captain we’ve crashed. With god this objective we’ll peddle fractured clocks— we’re alarmed to the teeth by armor beneath a helmet, crest, curvature test. My lycral song was uber-folded in a velcro wallet— in a low key uncopiable, I wrestle with lox. You knock three knocks like a good sales boy or a wayward stranger may presume.You knock three knocks for the go-ahead, blundering heaven-led on split-tongue runners with products you desire but which policy does not permit: wild trial offers for wishes to compile and yours wishing scatter all a mid-twenties while.


LJ Seeks CM Buck Weiss

Lonely Jinn seeks Centaur Mare Only serious inquires please. Looking for: Long Rides in the Bitter Twilight Conversation Possible Interspecies Romance Quest for me in the east and I will materialize. Consult the antediluvian waters and I will appear.

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The Beast Awakens Night Day Jesse Taylor

12


Billboard Dad Annie Paradis

I need to pet you

plant like in a mall fern like in a purse.

I say it canyon I say it like:YOU’RE *~A CANYON~*. Driving thru Des Moines no canyon except my soul blah blah but a serious billboard on which there is Jesus Christ—no words —nailed on the billboard part from his torso up and arms extend for the whole highway; his legs going down from the pole. They were coming out of the board a mangled bird thing diving down that I was not trained how to catch. Oh I need to leave you in a pool I need to do it now.

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In the Heart of Life Laura Lee Washburn

I. Going Up Mountain Going up mountain, daffodils become snow. Diesel train to Takayama: plum blossom, Kiso River, tunnel. The Kiso and train trade spaces, switch back switch back bridge and track. At a place where the Kiso pools, not yet to the fields of tea bushing into ready leaves, all mountain and tree grown straight line, clear-cut and replanted, the world inverts into the river: watch the train under our train under water, a yellow glow, move. Scarecrow scare. Seedling grow. Watch the rapeseed grow.

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II. Down Mountain Cherry blossom meets plum, green tea, topiary, daffodil garden, uncut stones mark cemetery. How soon we learn the sign for exit, . The rapeseed glows. Even here, the footprints of Persephone who was followed by the snouts then tails of trailing herded pigs.

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Perfection Bradley Allf

is a tall house in the sandhills a bedroom on the top floor of that house with a yellow bathroom and an enormous tub washed in warm tile. A glass ceiling and outside a never-ending late afternoon storm. Inside the hot water of the tub, the clean sheets, and the desk looking out and above it all; I sit and see through a screen wet branches, ferns, deer shaking damp from their eyes. Let’s lay on the bed and listen to the gray run off of our membrane. Let’s watch beauty without the misery of inhabiting it.

16


Portland, Oregon Jesse Dunlap

17


Freshwater Fish Auzelle Jones

“Play something,” I tell him. We merge into rush-hour traffic, streams of red, yellow, white lights bounding north. His first track’s notes glide along, but my hands tense. Hampered drums plus six lanes dodging whiskey groans, smoke, and airport exits. Freshwater fish. The city appears, then it turns—furious, steady crashing. Knitted limbs. Bold letters. Knew this would happen, just go ahead anyway. Cymbals splash, fade. An off-ramp approaches, cars blur around us. Atlanta Tampa Chattanooga. “Keep driving,” he says without looking at me.

Practical Advice for Practical Girls (No Swells) Auzelle Jones

I say I don’t want to spin so hard, but I keep taking on water. Thinking the crash of train on track, rusted-out razors, pitch-black skies are all just coincidence. I can float no matter what. We walk home in the rain and have the same conversation. I pass the exits, my legs snap beneath me, he makes another blank suggestion. Is it just me? Does everyone dive in the deep end? Like when she leaned in so I could hear her over the stereo. “Don’t make rules,” she said. “Then you won’t have a problem.”

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Willful Laura Lee Washburn She put the wheels on her feet because she was the oldest child and Mamma just didn’t have time to know. People live their lives. One day you’re canning pork sausage in its fat and wrapping your brothers’ feet in newspaper for school. One day you’re sneaking radishes under the bed. Mamma’s the kind of woman that dips snuff. More than once she’s thrown the poke into the woodstove and burned up her change. Daddy’s a spoil-his-women rascal. That’s how she lived. She put the wheels on her feet and rolled out to the window where that man served and for the rest of his life Eldon Gray, he was hers. Some days she was like a dog on a too-short leash whining its way into the house. Some days she was a Greyhound bus dancing for her double 8 home movie in the Florida Pennsylvania Georgia North Carolina anywhere-you-want-sun. The story never ends: daughters and in-laws; the old aunt rotting in her grave, her cellar goods ripe with botulism on the shelves; factories and oceans; schoolchildren home alone, we think; the golden couch under the window; the whole damn thing sometimes again and again because she put the wheels on her feet because the man worked in the window and she made him. No, the only cause is the cause and the light of it all. 19


Crib series Kristin Grey Apple

Video stills from At times, however, I will simply attempt to respectfully encounter whatever is there in front of me.This reminds me of laying in my crib earlier in life. 20


Through the Devilwood (Excerpt) Andrea Applebee

SCORE Lured soothed fed into it bodies of light auras richly layered through the fingering dusk she sucked the bait from its hook good as scent from a flower then slipped away into the folded effluence into the constant constant change. There was a time and a time. Frayed and sweet sometimes mercantile sometimes cold keen as a blade in the skin of the uncooked fish that is longing. She sees it not in the sense of daylight but within Luminous and bloody, slipping with visceral wealth too bright and raw a quick flick a tear soon mended the life pouring in like a draught, just as cold. Shiver and certainty. These are the workings. The workings. Feel free to enter the correlation; a situation calls her from the mazy coils of its indwelling. A cat unspools some thread, the sun’s blade makes its turn. The question does the one I love has no end no throat. But the sea does.

21


FEAST AND WAKE Cut deep in her fevered effort hauling the harnessed sun from dark to bright. The shore shines in brine and haddock’s eyes to be chosen sorted and rubbed tender hard, hard enough to fasten her to the one she loves. Erasure, the question and cut. When all the insects come out after rain or winter from their holes to sit on the edges of things and sing could she foreswear this indolence for a toiling heart for a little more music. Music groans through floorboards. It is more than near. It is from her pulled sodden and fraying as a freezing rope drawn from water. This is the end, the last hour and she has confused its lessons. May it be for the better. May the toll of several bells fall upon her shoulders and may she taste a poison cure each day before hoisting again the good sail.

22


NOTHING SAYS ANYTHING Years pass. Picking up speed like rain. Each time the tree blooms, the one in winter its sister in spring. Imparted and mellifluous she continues by choice or exile, long but brief like sleep in luminous cavalcades, in hollow ships of lust and persistence alterity soaked in blood incandescent forming sour dust of daring in the ken of furlowed nights. That hasp and shudder of resistance. In volution tapered to the vocate Groping day. Each time returning home taut and hungry to the same hearth and ashes the same biding; dishes long since put away, piano player asleep nothing says anything but what it wishes. Tomorrow as yesterday she bathes in the cisterns the cisterns of patience in all things but love. In all things but love. 23


Matins Zack Rearick There are no church bells in Atlanta. Instead, to toll the hour there is just the ambulance and the rat chatter and the soft whistle of God turning away to attend to something more significant.

Palmer’s Gift 24

Gail Weissman


Cosmography Caleb Agnew You start with an assumption but I never figured out which ones were alright to make. I could say there has to be meaning up there along the interstellar lines that we call constellations as if they were placed together or even close, most stars no nearer one another than we to them. If I may be honest, Doctor, I don’t see the point of this. I can’t sit here and talk about myself as if nothing else mattered. A person, the way I see it, just drives a conflicted machine, struggle of prejudices which turn out to be small chemical reactions in the skull.You can say ‘neurons firing’ all you want but it’s no less ridiculous and no less mundane. What do you envision when you tell a patient her mind is complex? Networks just sound too technological, like the soul just whispers away through time as an old trade route but there will still be an assembly of circuits, something anyone could paint on large enough canvas, because the diagram is god. A bunch of lines connecting this to that: ecosystems make the best flow charts and some maps can be drawn without lifting your pencil. I want to live on an island with nothing to hold me down as a node in somebody else’s picture. There. If you talk yourself through the whole thing, you finally hit the real assumptions. I think

25


there’s no way to get around somebody owning the whole thing. The sun still slides across his sky because the path is sacred to Zeus or whoever is in charge now. Was that the right thing to say? I also can’t shake the feeling that you’re waiting for me to say something incriminating, and then far-shooting someone can ride down to finish me off this time. I don’t know how long ago the accident was, but yes each night I wake with the same lost sensation as in the dream my feet slide out and for a second I think I am standing back at home watching Dad at work, etching wings and clouds into every table he built because the sky was on his mind constantly. Three days at sea made me question his line of work and the impulse that left one path in the labyrinth, that connects the feet of tributes to the world. I bet on the Cretan walls the children have left messages, scraped their small names in a last effort to mark the earth, because they hope letters are more than leaning light.

26


A Big Tree Gail Weissman

27


Portrait of the Author Melissa Fite Johnson

Photos in the Glencoe American Literature Anthology

Dorothy Parker wears black, bites her lip, offers her profile— strong jawline, one sad eye. Langston Hughes loops his coat between two fingers, shrugs it over his shoulder like a cape. He stands on his top porch step, Harlem bustling below. Ernest Hemingway punches his typewriter, grim, someone else’s novel splayed facedown beside him. He resents his own thoughts interrupting. Emily Dickinson’s lace collar appears itchy, something a young girl would tug at in church, resentful at having to be inside. Her eyes are wide. They do not sparkle. Walt Whitman wears an ascot, holds a wide-brimmed hat loosely at his hip. His pelvis juts forward, pushing each side of his unbuttoned coat farther apart. Kate Chopin could be crowned Prom Queen 1994. Her hair, an intricate maze of ropes. Chandeliers swing from her earlobes. Mark Twain gives away nothing, his feet propped up on the rail of a ship deck. His hair tufts out from under


his captain’s hat. His faraway look could be hopeful or dismayed. Edwin Arlington Robinson wears a suit too big for him, a safari hat, tinted eyeglasses. His hands clasp a walking stick, ready to lead an expedition for his town’s dead. Willa Cather’s hair is parted down the middle, swooped into a pair of hot cross buns. She slouches in her silk dress, puffs her cheeks with her breath. Sojourner Truth sits at a table, busying her hands with knitting needles. She wears a bonnet and shawl. Her mouth smiles, but her eyes are suspicious, facing an unseen person, perhaps a door. On the table, a vase of flowers. Jack London’s face is pale and open, a full moon. He tries to seem casual— the old straddling a backwards chair routine— but his shoulders are tense. No dog in sight. Ezra Pound glowers from under his giant black cowboy hat. He’s walking in the far left corner of the picture, trying to edge out of the frame. A hundred blackbirds perch behind him—not one attempting to fly. Edith Wharton looks pissed. Her head’s cocked, as if mid-conversation, but her mouth is closed. Maybe it’s her turn to listen. I want the picture taken five minutes after this one, when Wharton raises her hand to interrupt, to have her say.

29


Franklin Ave C Stop Jesse Dunlap

30


Frivolous Pleasures, Indolence, Tenderness, Unhappiness Erik Noonan what is the matter – Thomas Hardy Ensnared in circumstance like any other saved every time consequence loomed up by a dispassionate inopportune proclivity for myopic surrender examining minutiae combined with an importunate habit of giving blunt voice to contradictory views (flung out as bons mots and forgotten not rehearsed as gambits and deployed dialectically in a debate over game rules), those who took the heat for the race exhausted eating dust he just kept on disturbing the order there, preoccupied. Who could have guessed what would set him free? Look at everyone there was to talk to now!

Silk Garden Erik Noonan

a soft rigor – Richard Wilbur Twine binds a vermilion border knotted at each corner rosemary sprigs wicker baskets abrim with figs grapes blue thistles intertwine ribbon bows a breeze twists pear apple peach cherry ceiling fresco against pearl sky all radiates toward one great central octagon rosette flanked by eight butterflies gliding all rendered anatomically botanically drawn painted to an ideal dimension and scale raspberries blackberries frond leaf green shoot iris statice daffodil freesia narcissus some nothing that’s everything for love to wear what was first meant by the roots of paradise 31


The Bearing of Faceless Things Daniel Sauve-Rogan When it rains drizzle drazzel through the cracks in my ceiling tep tep I think of you, I think of the moon I cannot see and the child I might have one day. Obviously I wouldn’t have it, but her. Not you—of course but her. As scuttles rappappappapp under creaky wooden panels I think of rats, I think of friends I’ve forgotten and the Chinese food in the fridge that might still be worth eating if I can muscle up the resolve to check; you would never eat it—I know that much. Buzzing, measured click—click—clicks of the fan trapped in the window remind me I’m awake, while images of startling clarity dance shutter-stop across what I imagine are the backs of my eyelids —someone is walking down the hall with a fiercely consistent gait and their pants go cruffle cruffle where their thighs scrape. And I lose track of those memories, images grown faceless with age, you are just another you: a pronoun I was fond of. And her is just another her: a dream I never dared to finish. Really, why rely on words if noises and smells and colors and people you no longer know are all that rattles around


when sleep is further off than it should be? You. Drizzle Drazzel tep tep Rappappappapp Click—Click—Click Cruffle cruffle Her. A painless dozer of memory and fabric softener: the endless instant between sleep and morning.

Cave Light Gail Weissman

33


Beachcombing Scott T. Starbuck Old men wave metal detectors like hazmat teams scanning for radiation. A man speaks to a stuffed parrot on his shoulder like it’s alive. A former scientist wears a football helmet and pushes a shopping cart. “Columbo” says one December wood planks split and dover sole clogged bilge pumps in a boat like these men that almost sank but didn’t.

34


Icarus in Space Caleb Agnew

Star death. Don’t be silly, nothing is more compelling than the end of the biggest metaphor we know. If there is anything that ought to keep you up at night, Doc, this is it. Supernova: we know the sun is halfway there or so. Things will get really hot around here long before that and everybody should be scared because we know we’re all immortal. Death can only be a consolation if you die. Prove it to me. One fall from the sky later here I am and don’t tell me there aren’t a hundred others living today who weren’t the same.You can be the Earl of Gloucester and tell yourself it wasn’t so bad. We are blind enough anyway. It all comes down to senses. I’ve heard you can’t hear in space. Or sound doesn’t travel there. Trees fall in forests all the time. That’s a joke or a question for physicists; come to think of it I have dozens of those mostly about scale and size and speed. I want to flip through the manual for spaceship earth. 20,000 miles per hour should make something burn up except you can’t convince my body that we’re falling in circles. Ellipses, sure, if you say so.

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ARTIST SPOTLIGHT: GAIL WEISSMAN

In my art, I am concerned with drawing parallels between natural phenomena and human consciousness in order to converse about the soul of nature and the nature of the soul. For me, the sublime experience of nature defined by the Northern Romantic tradition of painting in the 19th century in America and Europe contextualizes my position and suggests that in order to experience landscape in terms of the beautiful, awesome and powerful, there must be in the work a presence of the shadow—a malevolent force that is dangerous, violent and/or horrific. This idea of the sublime in nature is also found in our ideas about religion; that we are meant to fear God because the idea of a greater power is awe-inspiring and humbling, which in turn is supposed to encourage building a better society together. It is fear and danger that often motivates the transformation of consciousness. Some say that during the most volatile and tumultuous times in history, the best art is produced. In my paintings, I attempt to describe the primordial acts of creation existing on the edge of a great abyss. This, to me, is a fearful and humbling thought and one of the great mysteries that surround human existence in the universe. Through the fear of our precarious position in the universe, we are made aware of how life is uniquely special, wonderful, unique and rare. It is this uncomfortable, awkward presence of danger and fear, married to beauty and harmony, that I use to motivate the viewer out of their comfort zone of ideal ideas of safety and unencumbered beauty into an alert, edgy awareness that is, at times, emotional and philosophical. For more about Gail Weissman, please visit: http://www.gailweissmanart.com/.


CONTRIBUTORS Caleb Agnew is a doctoral student in English Literature at the University of Virginia, focusing his study on Anglophone poetry of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. He lives in Charlottesville with his wife Taylor. Bradley Allf is a senior undergraduate at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, studying biology and creative writing. He was recently awarded the Suzanne Bolch Writing Award and plans to use the funding to explore how place changes through time by replicating John Muir’s famous 1,000 mile walk through the southeast. In his free time, Bradley enjoys playing piano and bothering venomous snakes in the name of science. Kristin Grey Apple is a NYC-based video artist. She investigates the tact, vertigo, and freedom involved in being a body in a larger world of bodies. She received her MFA from Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts in Philadelphia and her BA in Studio Art from Davidson College in Davidson, North Carolina. She has participated in numerous US and International solo and group exhibitions. Andrea Applebee lives and works in Durham, North Carolina. Her work can be found in the journals Talisman, Lute & Drum, Ditch, Absent, and others. Jesse Dunlap is a painter and writer living in Brooklyn. His inspirations are Grandma Moses and Marc Chagall. His website is StakesAndSilverBullets.blogspot.com. Melissa Fite Johnson, a high school English teacher, received her Master’s in English literature from Pittsburg State University in Kansas. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in such magazines as I-70 Review, The NewVerse News, velvet-tail, and Inscape Magazine. This year, Little Balkans Press published her first book of poetry, While the Kettle’s On. Melissa and her husband, Marc, live in Pittsburg with their dog and several chickens. Auzelle Jones has lived in California, Colorado, Washington, Georgia, New York, and Singapore. Now based in Brooklyn, she works in marketing and lives with her husband, Jason, host of “Divers Songs” on Viva Radio. She recently finished a project on Tumblr, Every Time I Drank in 2014. More of her work may be found at auzelle.com. George Life is a poet and translator currently living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Sections from his ongoing serial poem “Precarity” have appeared or are forthcoming in N/A, Blackbox Manifold, The Offending Adam, and New American Writing. Selections from a projected translation of the late poems of Du Fu have appeared in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal. In the fall he will be entering the Poetics Program at Buffalo as a PhD student. He blogs at periplumvia.blogspot. com. Erik Noonan is from Sherman Oaks, California. He is the author of Stances (The Bird & Beck-


ett Cultural Legacy Project) and Haiku d’Etat (Omerta Publications). He lives in San Francisco with his family. Annie Paradis has had work published in LUNGFULL! Magazine, Timber Journal, and Drunken Boat, with work forthcoming in Fence. In 2013 she received a BFA in Creative Writing from Pratt Institute. She resides in Philadelphia where she studies improv theatre and brews kombucha. During the summer she teaches poetry and scriptwriting at the UVA Young Writers Workshop. Zack Rearick is a PhD student in Literary Studies at Georgia State University. He received his Bachelor’s of Arts in English and Philosophy from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and his Master’s of Arts in Literature from the Univeristy of North Carolina at Wilmington. He is also the author of a chapbook published by Etched Press, entitled Poems in Which I am Chopped Up, Stepped On, and Sleep Deprived. Daniel Sauve-Rogan currently lives in San Jose, California where he splits his time between work and school. A long time lover of prose and poetry, he writes whenever possible, typically at the expense of other obligations. Thomas Rain Crowe wrote about Scott T. Starbuck’s latest book forthcoming from Fomite Press, “Industrial Oz may just be the most cogent and sustained collection of quality eco-activist poetry ever written in this culture, this country.” Activist Bill McKibben wrote, “Industrial Oz is . . . rousing, needling, haunting.” Starbuck was a 2014 Friends of William Stafford Scholar at the FOR Seabeck Conference. Jesse Taylor is a mixed media sculptor based out of Portland, Oregon. He has been influenced by and a practitioner of art since a young age. In 2014, Taylor received a BFA from Oregon College of Art and Craft. His work is an extension of his life experience and often takes the form of philosophical inquiry. Originally from Monterey, CA, AJ Urquidi earned his BA from UCLA and his MFA from CSU Long Beach. His work has appeared in many journals, including West Trade Review, Westwind, Thin Air, and his first conceptual collection, The Patterned Fragment (89plus/LUMA Foundation, 2014). AJ co-founded American Mustard poetry journal and recently received the Gerald Locklin Writing Prize for poetry. Laura Lee Washburn is the Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State, and the author of This Good Warm Place (March St.) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Carolina Quarterly, Ninth Letter, The Sun, and Valparaiso Review. Born in Virginia Beach, Virginia, she has also lived and worked in Arizona and in Missouri. She is Co-President-of-the-Board of SEK Women Helping Women Foundation. Buck Weiss lives in Tennessee, where he teaches American Literature and writing. His work has appeared in Longshot Magazine and anthologies such as Carnacki:The New Adventures and Machina Mortis.


Profile for The Invisible Bear

The Invisible Bear, Volume One, 2015  

Poetry and visual art review based in Durham, North Carolina.

The Invisible Bear, Volume One, 2015  

Poetry and visual art review based in Durham, North Carolina.

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