Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 180

Where favorite authors read their books for you and clothing is 100% optional

CK Webb is an author of thriller books, a book reviewer, and the host of WebbWeaver Books, Where our favorite authors read their books for you and clothing is 100% optional!. What a joy it is to come on her radio show, to talk about my trilogy, The David Chronicles, and the just released third volume, The Edge of Revolt!

Wish me luck and come listen for my radio interview with Cassidy Webb at 11:00am Central!
WEBBWEAVER BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS...

I raise her to her feet and carry her—all the way up the staircase—into my chamber

From there I go down to the women’s quarters, to see Bathsheba. The two of us continue to react in opposite ways to what has just happened. While I have regained my vigor, she has lost hers. I find her lying there, on the ground, utterly motionless. Meanwhile, my wives have gathered around her. Some of them are whispering amongst themselves, others—wiping a tear. In between them, light falls on her, catching her hand. By the glistening you can tell it is damp, because she is gripping her breasts, where the pain is the worst. Her milk is still welling up in them, still flowing. She is silent, but her body is still screaming for the child.The notion of giving her a voice, expressing her suffering, recording this moment for her in my own poetry, crosses my mind. I figure that if left unspoken, this grief—combined with the shortened mourning period for her husband, Uriah—will catch up with her later, and tear us apart.Then I try to forget all about it. I cannot write her pain. First and foremost I must find a way out of my own.I try to comfort her, but she seems to be far away, locked in her own grief. I raise her to her feet and carry her—all the way up the long, circular staircase—into my chamber. Kissing her I taste the salt of her tears. I smell the sweet fragrance of her milk. Then I make love to her.For me, this is the only way I know to fight off the presence of death. For her, at this moment, the fight is over. 
David in A Peek at Bathsheba



My writing is always inspired by art. There are many other paintings that show passion, such as David and Bathsheba by Ernst Fuchs, where David is shown in all his oriental, ornamental majesty, filling most of the canvas, imposing himself on the woman he loves, and she responds to him. The painting I love is David Consoles Bathsheba by Ivan Schwebel. Here the two lovers are shown on the roof of his palace, which overlooks a cold, indifferent city scape, where one is lost in alienation. Against this background, David and Bathsheba cling together and become one, to celebrate life and passion in the face of death. 

David Consoles Bathsheba by Ivan Schwebel
David and Bathsheba by Ernst Fuchs

★ Love giving gifts? Give The David Chronicles ★Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt★  Ebook  ★
"The miracle of Uvi Poznansky's writing is her uncanny ability to return to old stories and make them brilliantly fresh"-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer

A madman is in the house

During the production of Rise to Power I learned one thing about David George, the voice talent for the audiobook edition: he is a man of few words. He lets his thoughts resound in his voice, in the reading of the text. I indicated to him what passage I would choose for  the audio sample (which is what you'll listen to on the Audible/Amazon product page), saying I loved the way he read it, teasing out notes of comedy at the beginning, followed by quick action, and culminating with deep, profound ruminations. 

So when he asked me--once again--what passage I prefer for the voice sample, I knew he had  a different passage in mind, only he would not say it outright. So I invited him  to tell me about it. In turn David indicated a different passage, saying that, "It's classic and sexy and reminds me of the Leonard Cohen song Hallelujah." With these words, and with the steamy scene he chose, how could I refuse him? More precisely, how could I disobey the king? 

What did David choose, you ask? For now, I would not tell you! Yeah, yeah, sorry to be such a tease, but lets wait just a little bit, until the audiobook is out. Meanwhile, here is the passage I liked: David feigning madness in the court of Achish of Gath:


So I use my growing irritation to my advantage: I pretend to be insane. After all, I have learnt from the best, having worked such a long time in the court of a madman. Here I am, in the hands of these Philistines, so what choice do I have but to act like a lunatic? With my fingernails I scratch at the walls, and make marks on the doors of the gate, all the while letting saliva run down my beard. They go on making fun of me, so I figure I might as well join their performance. I break into their midst, hop onto the center of the hearth, and kick its pebbles till they fly out every which way. Then I sing with bold ecstasy at the utmost top of my voice, “David! David! David!” and point my fingers, glaring at everyone around me, and at Achish most of all. And for a grand finale I roll my eyeballs around in their sockets, and let out a terrifying wail, which silences each and every one of them. Alas, it takes the wind out of me, so I fall to the floor, where I start convulsing, with just enough breath to let my lips twitch.They cup their ears, bending over me to listen. One of them manages to guess at my words. I wheeze, “Slaying his tens of thousands... Thousands... Thousands…”And with spasm, again I cry, “David! David! David!”Achish glances at his advisers, and they bow their heads down, some in shame, others in confusion.“Look at the man,” he points. “He’s insane! He’s stark raving mad! Why bring him to me? Am I so short of madmen that you have to bring this fellow here to carry on like this in front of me? Must this man come into my house?”It is then that the four guards close in on me. They take hold of my limbs and carry me—spread eagle—out of the palace, and throw me out into the street, where a large, voluptuous Philistine women helps me to my feet and dusts off my knees and my shoulders. I smell the salt of the sea on her perfume, which is left in the air even after she has turned from me. Because of a moment of dizziness I cannot recall her face. The only impression left in me is the curve of her thigh, as she has swayed her big hips to walk away. I wish I could speak her language. I wish I could tell her, before she disappears completely into the crowd, “I am no Samson—but like him, I find myself desperate, so desperate to touch you.” Oh, how glad I would be to make my peace with you, city of Gath! I wish to bury my head in your soft, white sands, and listen to the breakers rolling in from the sea, and never once think of having to come back here one day to conquer you, because your children have humiliated me, my beautiful enemy, my Delilah. But return to you I must. It is in my heart, and in my tired, aching limbs, because revenge never stops. It never ceases to spur all of us into spilling each other’s blood.
Tale a listen:


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★ Love reading? Get The David Chronicles ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★


Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt
New! Preorder now:★  Ebook  ★
"A tale of madmen and kings, youth and old age, prison cells and freedom's ring..."
Sheila Deeth, Vine Voice, top 1000 reviewer

Go, why don’t you go back home

“Go, why don’t you go back home,” he mutters, dismissing me with a casual wave of the hand.“Please,” I say. “Let me serve you. You’ll find my music soothing, I trust.”“Trust?” he says, locking eyes with me.“Just so, your majesty. Trust!”“There is no such thing, where I’m sitting.”“But my music—”“It awakens something in me,” he groans, pressing a hand against his temple. “Something I wish to ignore. An unspeakable sort of pain. There’s a demon in me, and I know—I just know he’ll break loose, he’ll take over, the moment I’ll let myself soften.” “Perhaps not,” I suggest. “If you soften, the pain may wash over you, heal your soul. You may find yourself rising anew, if only you would listen to me. Let me, your majesty. Let me play.” The king shakes his head, No. No.“It’s not the music,” he mutters. “It’s you. I can’t bare looking at you.”This leaves me dumbfounded, and I stand at his feet, waiting for what may come out of his lips next. After a while he moans, “Boy—”“Yes?” “Have you ever been wounded? Ever been on a battlefield?”“No,” I say. “My mother won’t let—”“Of course,” he bares his teeth, belittling me with laughter. “It’s always the mother. Yours must be a smart woman to keep you safe, away from any danger.” “I give you my word, I’ll follow you anywhere,” I say. “Even to the battlefield. Sounds exciting, no matter what my mother says.”He raises one of his eyebrows as if to say, I know how you feel. She hides the world from you, doesn’t she.“Yes,” I have to agree. “I hate it, hate being protected. Makes me wonder what’s on the other side of obedience.”He pays no attention to what I say. “Listen, boy. Let me tell you one thing: often, when I leave the bloodied scene and ride back here, a long way over the range of the mountains, I don’t even realize I’ve been wounded. My mind wanders, it roams elsewhere... But then…Then I look at myself. And what do I see? A slash, deep across my flesh... And this, this is the time—not a moment earlier—when the pain comes. In a snap, it takes a bite.”
Saul takes a long pause. Then he looks straight down at me. “That’s how I feel, right this minute,” he says. “That’s what your music does to me.”
David in Rise to Power (narrated by David George)

★ Love giving gifts? Give the trilogy ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt
New! Preorder now★  Ebook  ★
"The miracle of Uvi Poznansky's writing is her uncanny ability to return to old stories and make them brilliantly fresh"-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame reviewer

Ernst Josephson, David och Saul

And so I find myself standing here, on the threshold of where I grew up, feeling utterly awkward

About a year ago I sifted through the contents of my suitcase, and was just about to discard a letter, which my father had written to me some time ago. Almost by accident my eye caught the line, I have no one to blame for all this but myself, which I had never noticed before, because it was written in an odd way, as if it were a secret code, almost: upside down, in the bottom margin of the page, with barely a space to allow any breathing. The words left some impression in my memory. I almost wished he were next to me, so I could not only listen to him, but also record his voice saying that. I imagined him back home, leaning over his desk, scrawling each letter with the finest of his pens with great care, as if focusing through a thick magnifying glass. The writing was truly minute, as if he had hated giving away even the slightest hint to a riddle I should have been able to solve on my own. I detested him for that. And so, thinking him unable to open his heart to me, I could never bring myself to write back. In hindsight, that may have been a mistake. Even so, I am only too happy to agree with him: the blame for what happened in our family is his. Entirely his. If not for his actions ten years ago, I would never have run away to Firenze, to Rome, to Tel Aviv. And if not for his actions a couple of weeks ago, this frantic call for me to come back and see him would never have been made. 
And so I find myself standing here, on the threshold of where I grew up, feeling utterly awkward. I knock, and a stranger opens the door. The first thing that comes to mind: what is she doing here? The second thing: she is young, much too young for him. The third: her hair. Red. 
Ben in Apart From Love (narrated by David Kuddler)

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Apart From Love★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★So much more could be said about the manner in which the author brings understanding to the hierarchies of relationships, but that would be robbing the reader of the joy of discoveries that Poznanasky accomplishes in this profound novel. 
-Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer

What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled

“What matters is only what’s here. I touch my skin right under my breasts, which is where the little one’s curled, and where he kicks, ‘cause he has to. Like, he don’t feel so cosy no more. Here, can you feel it? I reckon he wants me to talk to him. He can hear me inside, for sure. He can hear every note of this silvery music. 
It ripples all around him, wave after wave. I can tell that it’s starting to sooth him. It’s so full of joy, of delight, even if to him, it’s coming across somewhat muffled. Like a dream in a dream, it’s floating inside, into his soft, tender ear. 
I close my eyes and hold myself, wrapping my arms real soft—around me around him—and I rock ever so gently, back and forth, back and forth, with every note of this silvery marvel. You can barely hear me—but here I am, singing along. I’m whispering words into myself, into him.”

Anita in Apart From Love.

Take a listen to my beautiful narrator, Heather Jane Hogan:

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What she is envisioning is motherhood, which is the subject of my scuplture by the same name. It is hard to imagine this is actually bronze, because the patina is made to look like marble. I polished the piece until it became completely smooth to the touch, as if nature--by gusts of wind and the flow of water--has buffed this rock over time, the way pebbles come to be. 

But in the back, I 'carved' into the piece, so as to make it look as if it has broken. This makes for an interesting balance, as if you try to make a rock stand on edge. But more importantly, it is symbolic, for self-sacrifice is the nature of motherhood.

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Apart From Love★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★“Liberally salted with buttery smooth prose & fascinating insights”

Come in! Will you? Will you read these scribblings? Can you see my sword?

Take a listen to the audition for the role of David in Rise to Power  and you will hear for yourself how wonderfully my narrator, David George, brings the king to life, in both instances: in old age, and in youth:

 
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It is still a long time from daybreak, and the girl’s breast heaves as she mumbles something, some unclear word. She is so close at hand and yet, so far out of my reach. When I was first crowned king over my own tribe, I was such a vigorous young man that no illness could keep me away from my dear wives and concubines. If I would catch a cold, all of them would be sneezing. Not so this girl. Unlike all the women I have had since then, she is immune to my weaknesses. She is the one I will never know. I am here with her, yet this chill is meant for me alone.I hold my breath until she lulls herself back to sleep. Faint shadows start dancing on the wall. I read the shapes, trying to invent someone, a listener. You. I whisper, Come in... Call me insane, who cares? Who the hell cares if you refuse to trust me, if you insist on clinging to your kind of reality, which is as dull as it is solid... Mine, I insist, is not a dream. But even if it is... Even so, it is true! How can you deny it? Here is my story. I am opening it up to you. I can see why at first glance what you see here—these letters which I jotted here, on these papyrus rolls—may seem scattered, even scary. I understand why you step back from my door, why you look over your shoulder to find the guard... Come in! Will you? Will you read these scribblings? Can you see my sword, which I have drawn here, look! Can you see it the way I do, lifting out of the ink and into the air, turning magically over, around and around, right here in the center of the space? If you can, then—by the flash of it—I shall take you along, to leap with me into the surface of the steely thing. Down into its depths. Into my reflection.
Old David, alone in his chamber in Rise to Power

Sitting nearly immobile, Saul seems as chalky as the walls around him. He sits crumpled—in an odd way—upon the throne. His nails keep digging into the little velvety cushions that are stretched over the carved armrests. Not once does he give a nod in my direction, nor does he acknowledge my presence in any other way. Which agitates me. It awakens my doubt, doubt in my skill. Much the same as I feel in my father’s presence. Repressed. On the verge of acting out. So, rising to my feet I blurt out, “Your majesty—”“Don’t talk,” whispers one of the attendants. “Play.”I am pushed a step or two backwards, so as to maintain proper distance from the presence of the king. My name is called out in a clunky manner of introduction, after which I am instructed to choose from an array of musical instruments. I figure they must be the loot of war. So when I play them, the music of enemy tribes shall resound here, around the hall.I pluck the strings of a sitar, then put it back down and pick up a lyre, which I make quiver, quiver with notes of fire! Then I rap, clap, tap, snap my fingers, and just to be cute, play a tune on my flute, after which I do a skip, skip, skip and a back flip.It is a long performance, and towards the end of it I find myself trying to catch my breath. Alas, my time is up. Even so I would not stop. Entranced I go on to recite several of my poems, which I have never done before, for fear of exposing my most intimate, raw emotions, which is a risky thing for a man, and even riskier for a boy my age. Allowing your vulnerability to show takes one thing above all: a special kind of courage. Trust me, it takes balls.So, having read the last verse I cast a look at the attendants, especially the ones closest to me. Their faces seem to have softened. I can sense them beginning to adore me. One of them comes over and taps my shoulder, which nearly knocks me off my feet. Another one laughs. Others wipe their eyes. Then I glance at Saul, hoping for a tear, a smile, a word of encouragement. Instead I note an odd, vacant look on his face. Utter indifference. It stings me. Am I too short, too young, too curly for the role he has in mind for me?
Young David coming to the court for the first time in Rise to Power


The voice for the audiobook addition is simply regal. David George has a deep, resonant voice, the way I have imagined for the role of David, and he lets it change and mature as David grows up, starting as a young, carefree boy coming to the court from Bethlehem, through his adventures as a fugitive from the law, and ending as an young king. The story in Rise to power starts and ends in the voice of the old king, finding himself compelled to tell his story, which differs from the official version recounted by his historians. So you get a complete sense of him through the aging and deepening of the voice. 
★ Love giving gifts? Give this book ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt
Preorder now!★  Ebook  ★

"I am so enamored with the sensual style and delicious delivery
 that this review is a purely emotional response as I have just put it down. 
I feel like a devotee."

He is steadfast in refusing to go home. Being stubborn may cost him dearly

I decide to give him one more chance to redeem himself in my eyes before I give up on him, before I begin to despair of my own redemption. So I tell him, “Stay here one more day, and tomorrow I’ll send you back.” He remains in Jerusalem that day and the next. I invite him to eat and drink with me, which allows me to take a stab at trying to make him drunk.  I slap him on his shoulder with a fine sense of camaraderie. I even give him my goblet. I fill it for him so it is overflowing with beer. He gulps it down dutifully. One keg after another is brought in. Meanwhile I discuss how it is flavored with hops, which add a hint of bitterness, and act as a natural preservative, and how during the process of fermentation, herbs may be added to one keg and fruit to another, for no better reason than achieving variety in taste. By the end of the evening I am exhausted by all this talk, and so, I think, is he. After all this effort on my part I am astounded to learn that nothing, nothing at all comes of it. Uriah goes out in the evening to sleep on his mat among my servants. He is steadfast in refusing to go home. Perhaps he fails to understand that being stubborn may cost him dearly. 
Next morning I sit down at my desk to write a letter to Joav. “Put Uriah out in front,” I write, “where the fighting is fiercest.”I take a deep breath, dip my feather in ink and shake it, that it may not bleed.“Then,” I go on writing, “withdraw from him, so he will be struck down and die.”I seal the scroll and give it to my dear, trusty soldier, knowing he would never suspect he is carrying his own death sentence in his hand.And for a long time after the sound of his steps has died down I remain there, sitting at the edge of my throne, listening for him, hoping he would come back to me, wishing I could find a way to save him. 
David in A Peek at Bathsheba



This is the moment that David signs the death sentence for his soldier Uriah, and lets him carry it unknowingly to his commander, so his life would be placed in jeopardy on the battlefield. 

I slowed this moment down, quite deliberately, by having him pause to take care of his pen so it does not bleed, while he is contemplating shedding the blood of his soldier. At this point David can still change his mind, still refrain from betraying Uriah over the love of his woman, Bathsheba. The crime has not been committed, yet. Watching him from the shadows, we would be tempted to cry out, Stop! There's still time, don't do this! Don't put pen to papyrus!

To me, the contemplation of a crime is more interesting than the crime itself. This moment in David's story is so pregnant with possibilities that it inspired many artists to capture it on canvas, which inspires me in writing my novel. Here are two paintings by Pieter Lastman, a Dutch painter of historical pieces (his pupils included Rembrandt.) In the first painting, David hands the letter to his kneeling soldier, and the relationship between them seems, to all appearances, like one between a benevolent ruler and an obedient subject--if not for the reaction of the boy (who may be a young scribe, or his son) who raises his eyes in great alarm. Like us, he is holding himself back from shouting, Stop!

The second painting depicts the same moment, yet it is executed eight years later. Here, Pieter went to more explicit extremes. The boy has the same expression of mute horror, but look at the relationship between David and Uriah. David, clad in a blue-purple robe and red cape and bearing a golden scepter, is squirming uncomfortably on his throne, knowing that what he is about to do is utterly wrong. Uriah, kneeling before him, seems to suspect the truth, because his posture is one of being repelled, trying to increase the distance between the king and himself. A dog, the symbol of loyalty, separates between them.

In both paintings, the background behind Uriah depicts a holy building (modeled after of St. Peter's Basilica, rumored to contain pillars from the Temple in Jerusalem), suggesting God's presence on his side. In the earlier painting, the sky behind him portends danger. In the latter one, the crimps and folds in fabrics that seem to rustle in the foreground give an unsettling feeling.

Pieter Lastman, King David Handing the Letter to Uriah,  1611
Pieter Lastman, King David Handing the Letter to Uriah, 1619
★ Love giving gifts? Give the trilogy ★
Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★

Volume III of the trilogy:The Edge of Revolt★  Ebook  ★
"She writes with exquisite prose and elegant style, 
yet delivers piercing truth and insights into the human psyche on the way. 
A wonderful read."

The tunnel of memory that leads me back home

Sucked in by a force, I'm flying through a tunnelThe tunnel of memory that leads me back homeThe past blurs my present, so my vision is doubleThe walls and the ceiling curve into a dome
From here I can see my home, tilting And falling from place, all the lamps are aflame My father's empty chair is slowly ascendingTipped by the light, outlining its frame
This is the opening poem from my book, Home, and the preparatory sketch for its cover (see below) both originating from the same place, the same vision in my mind. I find it so magical that through a creative collaboration with a wonderful actress, Kathy Bell Denton, the words--and the vision--come alive through her voice. 

Take a listen:


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★ Love giving gifts? Give this book ★Get Home
★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
"Absolutely Stunning!" "scenes of such exquisite depth and beauty"


My pencil sketch of my childhood home
inspired the oil painting that is now used for the cover art of Home

He's ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother

The lamp swings like a pendulum                                   Pictures sway on their nailsThen slip down the walls, leaving scratched trailsAmidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare Slowly ascending is my father's armchair
And beyond all these outlines of what I see thereBeyond the sofa, the knickknacks, the old furnitureLight pours in, and it paints something newIt reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue
The clue to a presence only he could once seeA presence he longed for, because only sheCould call him back home, and envelop him soTouching-not-touching, her hands all aglow
These pages, upon which he'll never scribble a lineAre floating out of shadows, into the shineOnly she can now read the blanks, she and no otherHe's ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother.
Listen to my narrator, the tallented Kathy Bell Denton, read these lines:


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★ Love giving gifts? Give this book ★Home★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★"The book overflows with some of the most eloquent poetic moments in print."


My oil painting, depicting my childhood home at the time of mourning for my father
This is part of the cover art for Home