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One Dance
ONE DANCE is a collection of poems sewn together by both a desperate search for the genuine and the realities that insist such a state can’t exist given the world that ushers us from place to place. Moving from faith to fact, Bishop begins and ends inside himself. From the haunts of an abandoned rural church to the loose sand of longings, the poet wades through encounters that only offer partial answers, dances that end unfulfilled. Finally, the one dance is left for the reader to engage, Bishop choosing to let the dance come to him somewhere “between what he loves and what he longs for.”
74 pages, Paperback
First published October 2, 2016
179 people want to read
About the author
George Bishop
65 books17 followersGeorge Bishop, Jr., worked as an actor for eight years in Los Angeles before traveling overseas as a volunteer English teacher to Czechoslovakia in 1992. He enjoyed the ex-pat life so much that he stayed on, living and teaching in Turkey, Indonesia, Azerbaijan, India, and most recently, Japan. He holds a BA from Loyola University in New Orleans, an MFA from the University of North Carolina in Wilmington, and an MA from the School for International Training in Vermont.
His stories and essays have appeared in publications such as The Oxford American, The Third Coast, Press, American Writing, and Vorm (in Dutch). His first novel, Letter to My Daughter was published by Ballantine Books in 2010; his second, The Night of the Comet, came out the summer 2013, also with Ballantine.
His stories and essays have appeared in publications such as The Oxford American, The Third Coast, Press, American Writing, and Vorm (in Dutch). His first novel, Letter to My Daughter was published by Ballantine Books in 2010; his second, The Night of the Comet, came out the summer 2013, also with Ballantine.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
March 14, 2018
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:
AT MR. JEFF’S MUSIC ACADEMY
A little girl on guitar, piano boy, sounds
being urged into the air like dust scaling
some unknown attic draft. Mr. Jeff knows
someday they’ll say something, but for now
he leans back and looks through the ceiling,
listens to the children explore the darkness
coming off each lone note, a kind of night
beyond their bed lit up for the first time.
They try their best to move them closer,
sensing the lure of attachments in the air,
some ghostly shapes of tune. But it’s no use—
the sharp edges of Mr. Jeff’s ears peel away
the dead skin of each attempt. He knows
no matter how many songs they finally fit
on the tip of each finger, one day they’ll be
called back, like him, to some single sound;
they’ll be forced to lie down in its poor
perfection and die in the dust of a message
only ever sent to themselves. It’s something
he must keep from them now, a lesson
only the audience of their own reflection
can teach, and only as they gradually begin
falling into the silence of an empty chair.
PSALM
As I sat marinating in thought, gospels falling
from their bones like scales off a mythical fish,
the little prophet in me stood outside his cave
sensing a kind of conversion was close,
a weakness as old as the sky. I felt myself
being pulled into the godlessness of answers,
faith fading into the hands of its own clock.
If what makes sense passes for prayer, some
small salvation was at hand, price reduced
to desire, a guarantee good until saved. When
it came to faith, too much was as weak as not
enough. Having lost interest, the little prophet
returned to his cave disappointed, holding
the bible of himself up against the testament
of stone, burning everything he’d heard
to stay warm. I decided to listen to a sermon
of silence, to follow something that only leads
to itself, something nameless. Like the Magi,
I’d stare at things only I could see. I’d appear
monkish and ready to return some other way.
AT MR. JEFF’S MUSIC ACADEMY
A little girl on guitar, piano boy, sounds
being urged into the air like dust scaling
some unknown attic draft. Mr. Jeff knows
someday they’ll say something, but for now
he leans back and looks through the ceiling,
listens to the children explore the darkness
coming off each lone note, a kind of night
beyond their bed lit up for the first time.
They try their best to move them closer,
sensing the lure of attachments in the air,
some ghostly shapes of tune. But it’s no use—
the sharp edges of Mr. Jeff’s ears peel away
the dead skin of each attempt. He knows
no matter how many songs they finally fit
on the tip of each finger, one day they’ll be
called back, like him, to some single sound;
they’ll be forced to lie down in its poor
perfection and die in the dust of a message
only ever sent to themselves. It’s something
he must keep from them now, a lesson
only the audience of their own reflection
can teach, and only as they gradually begin
falling into the silence of an empty chair.
PSALM
As I sat marinating in thought, gospels falling
from their bones like scales off a mythical fish,
the little prophet in me stood outside his cave
sensing a kind of conversion was close,
a weakness as old as the sky. I felt myself
being pulled into the godlessness of answers,
faith fading into the hands of its own clock.
If what makes sense passes for prayer, some
small salvation was at hand, price reduced
to desire, a guarantee good until saved. When
it came to faith, too much was as weak as not
enough. Having lost interest, the little prophet
returned to his cave disappointed, holding
the bible of himself up against the testament
of stone, burning everything he’d heard
to stay warm. I decided to listen to a sermon
of silence, to follow something that only leads
to itself, something nameless. Like the Magi,
I’d stare at things only I could see. I’d appear
monkish and ready to return some other way.
Displaying 1 of 1 review