Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 187

Love is Part of It

I am thrilled to find this review, written by the author of NEXT TIME LUCKY: Lessons of a Matchmaker, Siggy Buckley. Siggy recently appeared on NPR with Melissa Ross' First Coast Connect on Home Swapping and her book on dating. This is what she wrote for my novel, Apart From Love:

4.0 out of 5 stars Love is Part of It., October 17, 2014By Thiarnain "Thiarnain" (FL) - See all my reviewsVerified Purchase(What's this?)This review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition) Another great work by multi-artist (or as the French say "artiste complet"): U. Poznanzky who is a wonderful painter, sculptor, poet and in general master of words and intriguing plots. This novel weaves three individual story lines into one like a tapestry that takes shape in front of your eyes, adding color and depth with each new chapter.
It took me a while to get warmed up to the three main characters: the philandering father, Lenny, who divorced his wife Natasha who mysteriously left the scene. Anita, his new unlikely wife-- except for her physical likeness to Natasha and Lenny's, Ben who appears on the scene again after 10 years of absence. Anita is pregnant when the story starts. The secret around Natasha is soon revealed to Ben, to Anita, surprisingly, only later.
Natasha, a former concert pianist suffers from early dementia and is in a home, yet Lenny still loves and cares for her. Ben can't believe the shell of his mother that remains. The reader witnesses the terrible effects this disease has on people, both the patient as well as the family.
An illicit bond develops between Ben and Anita who are of the same age while Ben is alienated from his father. This family set-up- the three live in the same apartment- will not end happily of course.
While I found the story fascinating, the characters well developed and intriguing, I found the middle part a bit too long winded. Leaving out some of the flashbacks would have remedied that impression. The end left me somewhat unsatisfied. Of course, there is not always a happy -end in real life either. Overall, I recommend Apart from Love as a really good novel.

Words Left Behind

I love the quote by poet Clarissa Simmens, who says, "I am so grateful that my poetry is able to be published and stored in the modern version of ... The Cemetery of Forgotten Books." She is the author of seveal books, and I am thrilled that this is what she said about my novel, Apart From Love, in her usual poetic style:

5.0 out of 5 stars Words Left Behind..., October 6, 2014By Clarissa Simmens "Drabarni" (FL United States) - See all my reviewsThis review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition) Uvi Poznansky’s books are always written on several levels. Apart From Love seems to contain so many mythological elements. There is the basic story of the love triangle of Ben, his father Lenny, and Anita (the young wife who is replacing Ben’s mother) that is reminiscent of Oedipus Rex: kill the father, marry the stepmother, who happens to look like the real mother when young. There are also the three aunts—the Fates—snipping and knitting, moving amongst the lives of the main characters. There is another level with mirror imagery and twinning: Anita and Ben’s mother Natasha; Anita and Lenny’s soon-to-be born son with Lenny and Natasha’s son Ben; and Ben as competitor with Lenny, the father he resembles. Still another level examines the philosophical question of authors writing about people they know. As Anita says, “The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more,” recognizing that words and lives are up for grabs to any author. The best part of a Poznansky book? The poetic prose, her seductive words, that make each book well worth reading.

A Modern Take on an Old Bible Story

John Tucker is a multi-genre author, who says about himself, "I embrace my Gemini ways with an abandon that generally belongs to serial killers, traveling evangelists, and the heroes of most Zombie movies." What a great surprise to find his review of A Peek at Bathsheba:

5.0 out of 5 stars A Modern Take on an Old Bible Story, October 1, 2014By J.D.Tucker "J.D. Tucker" (Monroe, Georgia) - See all my reviewsVerified Purchase(What's this?)This review is from: A Peek at Bathsheba (The David Chronicles Book 2) (Kindle Edition) Growing up in church I always heard the story of David and Bathsheba in a negative way. True, David loved her at first sight, but the dirty way he sent her husband into the front lines of battle in order to kill him soured my views of the Biblical Hero. From heroically slaying Goliath with a sling, to cowardly sending a man to his death in order to claim his wife. Uvi Poznansky managed to change my mind a bit with this modern take on David's obsession and pursuit of the woman of his dreams. It's definitely not a dry book. It brims with emotions like passion, jealousy, lust, triumph, and self-realization. Religious without being preachy, historic without being boring. Five Stars.

A Favorite Son is #1

Today A Favorite Son is #1, check it out:

Full of Passion! I Loved it!

In her blog, Book Reader's Heaven, Glenda A. Bixler blogs about Books, Reviews, Authors, Publicity, Tips, short stories, essays...a little poetry, a cat story or two, thoughts on music, movies and products selections. I am thrilled to find her review of Twisted:

5.0 out of 5 stars Full of Passion! I Loved it!, October 3, 2014By Amazon Customer "Glenda" (Pennsylvania) - See all my reviewsVerified Purchase(What's this?)This review is from: Twisted (Kindle Edition) And his wife said to him, Do you still hold to your in
tegrity? Curse God and die! Job 2:9.... A face has been given to her by many over the thousands of years that the story has been told, but...what was her name? Don't take too long to try to remember, because she never was named! Job was certainly identified and even picked out by God to show that his faith was great! But what of his wife?

Uvi Poznansky has created a collection of her shorter stories, Twisted, that will provide readers with a tale of horror for the woman who told Job to curse God... Whether or not it has any element of possible truth for this unnamed woman, it certainly points readers in a direction toward which they have never gone... Did she love Job? Feared for his life? Or was she concerned about financial support if her husband were to die? Or, perhaps, she may have been jealous of his devotion to God rather than to her and his family... She forces each woman to consider--what would I have done???

The cover of this book is so very intriguing that I find that I must begin right here. In her book she has a separate section on how her art is intertwined with her writing. This cover, to me, is a perfect example... She shares how she created it and I found that this was just as important part of the book as was the stories themselves... Intriguing...

The story begins as we find the woman without a name in a cave, afraid, wondering what was to happen to her. Did she even remember what her name was? But then she hears a discussion, really an argument. It's about her! When it grows silent again, she begins to crawl slowly out of her hiding place... She crawls until she begins to see what appears to be familiar. It looks like where she had lived--Uz--and she remembers the people and places from her life at that time...

She could hear cries, some mournful, but even then, they, too, slipped away. She had not been mourned very long... Even Job had spent little time, spouting His usual words. Always about himself!...Readers will discover what happens as Job's wife roams through... Hell...

"The Hollow" comes next as a woman faces the death of her husband and lives in the nightmare of that loss.... Sometimes, I imagine, she even wants to accompany him--she feels so greatly. Even considering to go through a doorway, she imagines that there is no floor beyond the opening... and remembers how he died... She had tried to forget--the memories, their love, their life together. But that morning, she had found her diary. Opened... How had that happened? And Why?

"I, Woman" quickly tells you more about the story, when a sub-title is added-- As told by a has-been slab of clay! You know, one of my immediate reactions was that it was a perfect description for... ME Do we reach a point in life when we consider ourselves as a has-been. Certainly we do... but when, and how... I thought, was the issue, don't you think? Yes, it seems like my first inclination might be true...but then...the story, as predicted, becomes twisted...

The last piece, Dust, is more that a story and can only be appreciated by sharing at least one of the sculptures behind the words... or at least the first line...From dust you gather me

I move through Poznansky's words... Does she write of agape love, philia, or eros in portraying such beauty... I arrive at only one word to describe my feelings about her work. It is Passionate! And I find there is no other word than I can use to describe my response to what she has presented to us in Twisted.

This is a book that drains your emotions... There will be confusion, pain, dread and fear, but there is also warmth, understanding, contemplation, and so much love... Uvi has spoken to me in this book. It is the first book of hers I've had a chance to read. From this one, however, I feel I have known her, the total Uvi Poznansky. Many will know her online for the kind, gentle, thankful person we've learn to care for... But, this, this, has shared her heart with me--with her readers. Could we think of these things she has twisted for us to consider if Uvi had not first considered them herself?

It is obvious in her work that she wants to share with women, but, then, in I, Woman, she speaks to man like no other may have ever spoke... I am held captive, pondering over and over what she may have wanted her readers to find in her work... As opposed to what I have found there. I find it doesn't matter. Uvi has touched me. I am grateful...

GABixlerReviews

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We all knew that the instrument was sacred. It was not to be touched

When I was six years old, I would sometimes sit, utterly silent, behind my best friend as she played her piano. The sound of her music fascinated me to such a degree that I begged my parents to enroll me in piano lessons, too. Being sensible, they decided to take my aspirations one step at a time. So instead of a grand piano, they bought me a piccolo, and started me off in a class where thirty kids puffed, wheezed and blasted—more or less at once—through their wind instruments with various degrees of success, producing a hilarious cacophony that had little to do with music. This ended my artistic ambitions right there and then, validating my parents’ decision to exercise caution with what I had said I wanted.Then, I introduced a white piano into my novel Apart From Love. It belongs to Ben's mother, Natasha. This is her signature piece, even as she starts descending into the depth of her infliction with Alzheimer's.
By the time I turned sixteen, mom had developed an unexplained fear, a fear of getting lost, which was quite pronounced, even as she headed out for a short walk, such as to the grocery store on Wilshire Boulevard, not more than a couple of blocks away. She seemed to rely, with an increasing sense of anxiety, on the familiar, and would become ferociously shaken if a chair was accidentally moved out of position. We all knew that the instrument—which was only hers, because I had stopped playing by then—was sacred. It was not to be touched. And so, too, was she. 
The mere presence of this instrument in the apartment suggested to me a variety of scenes, such as the musical duet between Ben and his father's new wife, Anita. Now, how would you go about writing a duet, when your knowledge about playing the piano is nothing but a faint memory from the age of six? 
I found several ways of learning the intricate details. First, I watched numerous videos, the most entertaining of which is this one, showing Fran & Marlo Cowan (married 62 years) playing impromptu recital together in the atrium of the Mayo Clinic. Then I read numerous articles, like this three-step instruction about singing duets, which taught me that eye contact and exchanging nods between the two players is at least as important as striking the right notes. Next, I selected a piece of music, The Entertainer, and learned more than you ever wanted to know about every note of it, and how it should be played. I did it, among many other ways, by watching instructional videos like this one. Finally I had to fold in the difference in both musical education and temperament between Ben and Anita. 
So here is an excerpt from the way it plays out in the end:And before this phrase fades out Anita straightens her back, and places her hand on the keys. Then, to my astonishment, she plays the next phrase of music, this time with raw, intense force, which I never knew existed in her, bringing it to the verge of destruction, making it explode all around me. And I, in turn, explode with the following one, because how can I let her outdo me? I am, after all, The Entertainer... Here I come! Here I drum! No more woes. Let me close! Let me in, hold me tight! Don’t resist me, do not fight—At this point Anita kicks the bench back, and I tip it over behind us. She sways her hips to the beat, and I tap the floor. And we find ourselves bouncing there, almost dancing in place, playing the piano side by side: she on the high notes, I—on the low. From one musical sequence to another, the music sparkles between them, in spite—and maybe because—of the fiery contrast between the two. Which brings me to believe that my musical aspirations at the age of six may not have been a total waste, after all.Sometimes I find myself having to take my hand away, so she can play the same key immediately after me. On some notes, my right hand crosses her left hand, in an exchange that is wild and fiery—like no duet I have ever seen, or listened to! One way or another it blends, it mixes into a sound, which you might call a crude, unruly, unrestrained racket. But to the ears of a madman, it can be called music.
A detail from the cover of Apart From Love
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After You're Gone

Written by my father
Translated by me

Somewhere at night a string sings outAll's dark, silent, filled with doubtI'm alone, and you?Out there, in the cold, a string sings out
Forgive me ma, that under your wingA poet grew, only to sing Forgive me ma, I knew no way but runI was a defiant son!
In your life I sang you no songs, but now I miss—Forgive me ma, that I wiped off your kissWhich you gave me, thinking I were asleep...Now, after you're gone, I confess and I weep
I loved no one like you!After you were gone, I knewI had travelled to a place so alien, so coldHow bitter it had felt, to you I never told.
How you waited to receive a word from me, a letter,How I missed you! Only now I know betterNo longer am I ashamed to say, to try:Forgive me ma, now at last I am allowed to cry.

This is a watercolor painting--the largest I have painted--of my father. Measuring 40" x 30", this is called 'Silence of the Bard. Why a Bard? Because even though my father never played a musical instrument he composed beautiful images using the music of words. This is why the impression of the strings extends out into the landscape, which becomes a melodically conceived universe. 
And, why Silence? because he never shared his last body of work with anyone. It is not been read by others, until now, until I published this book in his tribute: Home.
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What happened today behind closed doors between Amnon and Tamar should be blotted out

Sitting down I lay my head upon the desk. By the touch I know: here is my daughter’s face, which my child, Amnon, carved into the wooden surface years ago, when she was a newborn baby. Perhaps this scar is all that remains of a happier time. Perhaps this is all there is.One thing is obvious: what happened today behind closed doors between Amnon and Tamar should be blotted out. I must instruct my court historians to avoid investigating it, let alone writing it. This story should remain out of their records. But why, then, do I feel compelled to sharpen my quill? I have no answer, except this: if I write everything down, and then read it back to myself, perhaps I will find a way to make sense of it all. Confusion makes me uneasy. Then again, in this case it may be less painful than clarity. Perhaps it is better to knock the inkwell upside down, and let the ink bleed across my characters, obscuring them completely. Of its own, the tip of my feather hovers over the blank sheet, and it starts its journey on the slant of the first letter, writing:
So Tamar went to the house of her half-brother Amnon, who was lying down. She took some dough, kneaded it, made the dumplings in his sight and cooked them. 
I imagine she could feel the obsession, the weight of his gaze at her back, as he was following every single one of her movements. As tension grew between them, she must have spotted the glint, the flareup of lust, escaping from the corner of his eye every now and again. Still Tamar resisted the urge to leave, because she respected my command, and made up her mind to be brave, even to her own detriment, and obey it. Besides, she figured that Amnon was of no danger, because he was sick. And as long as there were servants around her Amnon would have to restrain himself. At least for now, she was safe.
Then she took the pan and set it before him, but he refused to eat.“Send everyone out of here,” Amnon said. Faithfully did Jonadab do his bidding.. “Out, all of you!” he shouted, avoiding to look at Tamar, who turned pale.And so, everyone but her left the chamber. 
I imagine that she asked herself if she should leave, too, but held herself firm. Still, she respected my command. 
David in the upcoming novel, In search of redemption
The rape of Tamar by her half-brother Amnon is a seminal event in the life of their father, David, as it starts off a chain of calamities that tests his control of the family and later, the nation. In my upcoming book, In Search of Redemption, he will discover how it happened and tell it in his voice.
The rape inspired many artists to depict it, before, during, and after the deed. The first painting here is by Ian Steen. It shaw Amnon lying lazily upon his bed, his shirt dropping off his shoulder, feigning sickness so his sister would come to cook for him and feed him, which is when he can get close enough to rape her. His servant already holds Tamar in a disrespectful way, while she is shown pleading with him.
The second painting is by Niccolò Renier, and he chose to explore the aftermath of the rape. While Tamar is weeping into her handkerchief, lamenting the loss of her innocence, Amnon is in rapture, concentrating on the satisfaction he got through his brutality. He looks away from her and even shoves her away.
The Third is a study by Maerten van Heemskerck, who chose to depict the hustle bustle in Amnon's house while Tamar is still in the process of cooking for her seemingly sick brother. The place is full of color, with the exception of Amnon who is shown to be purposely white, and lying still on his bed, hiding behind all the commotion. By his side are attendants, servants, and even a doctor who stands by the window, lifting a glass container to the light, examine the sick person's urine.  
Amnon and TamarIan Steen
Amnon and Thamar Niccolò Renieri (Nicolas Regnier) (1591–1667)
Curing an invalid: study for ´Amnon feigning illness in order to rape Tamar´
Maerten van Heemskerck  (1498-1574) 
Volume III of the trilogy:
In Search of Redemption
★ On the drawing board ★

Volume II of the trilogy:
A Peek at Bathsheba
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 Volume I of the trilogy: Rise to Power★ Audio ★ Ebook ★ Print ★
"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 line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated by a red stain

"And then she left him.He looks at the line. It is written in blue ink, pressed into the sheet of paper—vigorously here, faintly there—with his usual stroke, a stroke that drives through the spikes and valleys in the shapes of the letters at a steady slant. The line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated, unexpectedly, by a red stain. Blotting it is bound to leave fingerprints, and so Mr. Schriber  decides to leave it alone. He lifts the paper by its corner—and a drop bleeds down; he lays it down on the desk—and the stain goes on spreading. Going back to his writing, he applies too much pressure on the pen—and the pointed nib digs into the paper. Taking a deep breath, he tries to compose himself. The pen is his weapon. The simple act of pulling it over the soft, white surface has never failed to calm him down. Letter by letter, mark by mark, it will soon draw him into a different state of mind."

So starts a short story titled And Then She Left Him, in my book, Home. Mr. Schriber tries to sort out his life, and to understand the reason why his wife has left him, by writing about their relationship. This story is great opportunity for me to capture some of my own thoughts about the process of writing, and the art of it.
It is only towards the end of this story that he begins to understand her point of view, and accept it:
But somehow his confusion starts to clear up. Now he knows, deep inside, how she must have felt all these years. Confined. Caged. He has a sudden sense of her anguish. No longer does he wonder why, why she would wish to hurt him. To his surprise, he finds himself coming, at long last, to accept her way of looking at things. He embraces what she has been giving him. He takes it in, her hate.Is it too late for him? Too late to turn a new page? Can he hold on, just long enough to try, try to tell her he is sorry? At this point Mr. Schriber grips the arms of the chair and with great effort, lifts himself into it. Then he leans over his desk, feeling tired, and older than he ever felt before. From time to time he presses one hand to his temple, where a sharp pain shoots through him. His other hand clutches the weapon: his pen. He can tell, there is not much time. The ending has come to him at long last; and so the battle between the writer in him and the editor, the battle that has been waged inside his mind, turns easy all of a sudden, and the triumph—joyous. The pain recedes, and now he pours his heart out, filling one sheet of paper after another with his bold, fluid stroke, a stroke that drives through the spikes and valleys in the shapes of the letters, at a steady slant. In this landscape of blue ink, he writes without stopping, without editing or crossing anything out. He feels the urge. Time is running out.Then Mr. Schriber lays his head on the wooden surface of the desk. Time to give up control. Time to give up... So he listens to the pen rolling softly away from his fingers, farther and farther out of reach, until there is nothing there, nothing but silence. He lets his eyes fall shut and at long last, falls asleep. In his dream he views this last sheet of paper. Its texture, seen at an extremely close range, is that of crushed, flattened pulp. He notes each and every fiber. Yes, he imagines can tell them apart by the subtle changes in direction, and in the shades of their whiteness. The paper carries a faint but indelible imprint, a stain that has, by now, seeped through the entire stack. But if you passed a finger over it, it would feel dry to the touch.At this moment the stain seems to have changed colors; it has turned dark brown, even inky in places. And here, close to the edge you could find a fingerprint. This is the writer’s signature, this and no other, because sleep came abruptly, before he had time to spell out his name. And there—scribbled with a strained gesture, directly above this signature—are these last words:She said, Time to go. He asked her forgiveness, and then she left him.
Excerpt from Home
My watercolor and ink painting, Untitled

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