Uvi Poznansky's Blog, page 201

Oh what fun! I am working on the cover of my upcoming novel

Oh what a fun morning this is going to be! I'm going to design the cover of my upcoming novel, A Peek at Bathsheba!

Apart from Love - a beautifully written unusual novel

Skadi Winter is the author of HEXE,  the story of young girl, born during the coldest winter people could remember in a remote German village shortly after WWII. I am deeply moved by her review of my novel, Apart From Love:

5.0 out of 5 stars Apart from Love - a beautifully written unusual novel, June 17, 2014By Skadi Winter - See all my reviewsThis review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition) Uvi Poznanski's book is fascinatingly different from the usual love story or family affair story.
We are introduced to a dysfunctional, broken family relationship of a father, Lenny, his son Ben, his wife, a music artist called Natasha and to Anita.

While Natasha is suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's disease and is living in a care home and Lenny has divorced her, Ben thinks for years that his mother is on a world tour and has left them. Because of an affair of his father with Anita, an ice cream parlour waitress, whom he later takes as his second wife, Ben has left home and returns only after 10 years while his father has been taken to hospital.

While the story unfolds, we learn from an old tape recorder, which Lenny is using to spy on the most intimate thoughts of his son under the premise to use the recordings to write a book.

The tape recorder functions more and more as a diary of Ben and Anita, who are drawn to each other behind Lenny's back as Anita only is insignificantly younger than Ben. The reader , in my view, functions as a keyhole viewer or maybe a psychoanalyst, watching the dynamics of the family unfold from a safe place. But, is this such a safe place? Have we not all, the readers, more or less experienced similar scenarios in our own life?

Each of the characters tells us about their situation from their point of view over the tape recordings, thus emotionally involving the reader: dependency, love, rivalry, hurt, mistrust, need, secrets and betrayal - insight into a family world we all know.

I only have discovered Uvi Poznanski recently and after reading 'Apart from Love' I downloaded two more books of her, 'Home' and 'Rise to Power'.

Uvi brilliantly portrays the different characters in 'Apart from Love' and successfully involves the reader to reflect on them. Her language is very skillful and calm, even gentle and thus never fails to paint the picture of society's life 'behind the scene'.
It certainly is not the average 'every-day-book', it is great writing art. I admit, I will read the book again, to finally let it sink in. All I can say now is, I loved it.

I strongly recommend Uvi's books to readers who are looking for more then shades of colours or blood thirsty creatures. Uvi is a writer who's books will stay with you, the fine art of a most sensitive and skillful artist. If there were more than 5 stars, I sure would add them.

Apart from Love...nothing else matters!

Jaspreet Mann Kanwar is a poet and a story teller. She is the author of The Road in the Sky (and other books.) I am thrilled to find her review of my novel, Apart From Love:

5.0 out of 5 stars Apart from Love...nothing else matters!, June 17, 2014By Jaspreet Mann Kanwar - See all my reviewsVerified Purchase(What's this?)This review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition) "Just say something to me. Anything." And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, 'cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway. Uvi Poznansky explores the intricate and complex world of love in ‘Apart From Love’. The characters reveal the hidden recesses of their mind as the story unfolds. A delightful narrative that encompasses all the aspects of life: love, loss, suffering, pain and hope. The main characters Ben and Anita are drawn to each other despite the complexities of their life and existence. In a rather unusual way they discover themselves. The journey is filled with heartbreak, sheer devastation and loneliness. However, despite the odds, despite the overwhelming weight of guilt, a light shines at the end of the dark tunnel. What are the odds of Ben and Anita finding a place for each other in their turbulent world? Will they find anything apart from love? Will they find love? Discover the meaning of love hidden in poignant lines, poetically woven to create a canvas of life. Feel the seismic tremors of dark secrets, unbridled passion and a flame that just refuses to quell. A beautiful narrative that highlights Poznansky’s adept handling of plot & language and takes you into the mind of a dysfunctional family grappling with universal issues of love, betrayal and forgiveness. Discover ‘Apart From Love’ and connect with a great artist of our times, an artist that transforms the ordinary into the extraordinary and turns everything that she writes to gold with her Midas like touch.

Then I rap, clap, tap, snap my fingers, and just to be cute, play a tune on my flute

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?
David 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. Take a listen to his audition for the role, and you will hear for yourself how wonderfully David brings the king to life, in both instances: in old age, and in youth:
If your browser wouldn't play it, try this


Detail from a painting by Erasmus Quellin II
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"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."

In tribute of my father

I wrote this story the way I imagined my father seeing his journey, when his family escaped into the depth of Russia as a small child:

"There he sits, pressed in between bundles and things that keep rattling around him, on top of a horse-driven wagon. Looking up at his parents he can sense something big, something fearful and unspoken casting a shadow over them; and they bend their heads together over him and his sister. He can see an endless line in front, an endless line in back – horses and wagons, wagons and horses as far as the eye can see – all advancing towards the same gray, unclear horizon, all escaping towards the same destination: Unknown.

The sun rises in front of the wagons, and sets behind them. Towns appear and disappear. Rivers pass by, then forests, brick houses, motels. In Minsk they stop. He finds the three-story hotel quite fascinating at first, especially the curved rail of the staircase, which is meant, no doubt, for sliding down and yelling at the top of your voice. Of course, landing down on your butt, he finds out, is an entirely different matter – and so is the harsh, unforgiving look cast down at him by the hotelkeeper.

They settle down for the night. In the rented room, his mommy blesses the Sabbath candles. Her hands are tightly clasped, her eyes closed. And early the next morning they mount the wagon again, and the journey goes on in the dim light, guided by nothing but an instinct to survive, farther and farther away from home.

Squinting at the rising sun, Zeev finds it more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. His mind is going numb listening to the wheels as they spin and turn, beating incessantly against the mud. Cold rain starts coming down at him, sheet after sheet, and streaming in the same direction is the wet mane of the horse. Its head keeps bobbing up and down, up and down in front. When will it end? Where can they go?

Many days pass by – he cannot count them any more – until, one evening, as they travel along the river, a big town comes into view, closer and closer against the smoky blue backdrop of the Ural Mountains.

This, his daddy tells him, is Saratov."

This was an except from my book, in tribute of my father: Home


My father was born 1912, and the story above is how I imagine the story of the family, escaping their home on the eve of World War I, which started on August 1, 1914 with the German declaration of war on Russia. Always an army town, the fortress of Brisk was now flooded with Russian military personnel, and many private houses were requisitioned to accommodate them. Late in July 1915, with the installation of new hospitals in town, it became clear that the front was fast approaching Brisk De-Lita.

Rumors of evacuation were heard and the Russian army was to fortify the east bank of the Bug River; but when the German army captured Warsaw on August 4, the Fort Commandant gave the civilian population in Brisk three days to evacuate. Imagine the panic amongst the Jews, who owned most of the businesses, when they had to abandon their belongings and flee for their lives.

When the German army marched into Brisk on August 25, it was a town without people, but with a great abundance of merchandise in the stores. And on the eve of Yom Kippur, the 18th of September, they entered Slonim, a neighboring city, and pressed on into Russia.

By that time, the family was already far away from the frontline. A long, dragged out journey had begun.

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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 dark fantasy book, Twisted, and my other books!


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When a father says: I was not prepared for you. Forgive me.

At the end of the cab ride to Sunrise home, the silence is finally broken when my father glances at me, and his face softens, and he says, “Anita is right. I have been tearing her, inside. I need to separate what is real and what is not.” 
And I say, “This here between us, this is real. And the loneliness, too.” In return he says, “I am so sorry, Ben. I do not know what came over me tonight. I guess I was not prepared for you. Forgive me.”
Ben in Apart From Love.
Listen to his voice, narrated by the gifted David Kudler:

m Your browser does not support the audio tag. Here is the audio: http://uviart.com/images/Forgive_me_B...
If your browser wouldn't play it, try this.


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Apart From Love
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“I plan to read all her other books. Hers is a unique voice”

It would make you dribble! Drive you to madness!

"When I sprinkle my secret blend of spices; here, take a sniff, can you smell it? When I chop these mouthwatering sun-dried tomatoes, add a few cloves of garlic for good measure, and let it all sizzle with lentils and meat—it becomes so scrumptious, so lip-smacking, finger-licking, melt-in-your-mouth good!
There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind; and having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of Saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: When the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one! "

Yankle in A Favorite Son

Modeled on the biblical story which is truly fascinating to me, this is a present-day twist. At this point in the story he is preparing a lentile stew for his brother, Esau, who comes home so hungry from a day of hunt, he is prepared to throw away up his birthright for a bite of that stew. 

Later in the story Yankle will resort to cheating his father, who is lying on his deathbed, to steal away the inheritance. Here is a ceramic sculpture of Jacob preparing to wear the hide of a kid on his arm, so that if his father will touch him, he will mistake Jacob for his hairy brother Esau. In this piece, I focus on the moment of contemplating the crime, rather than the moment of action. He is about to make a choice: is the inheritance truly worth the price of losing his honesty, his soul?

My clay sculpture of Jacob, "What if my father touches me?"
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"There is so much I enjoyed about this book, that I do not quite know where to begin"

Here, at last, is my father...

At this moment, a man is lying in his armchair, propped up on a large pillow. He has lived, or rather, has confined himself within these walls for decades, for a reason unknown. In this stagnant place all sounds are muffled, all images erased – but for one thing: his youth. There is a vibrant longing in him for the adventures of his early days. 
Was it not just yesterday when he left his home in Poland, never to see his parents again?  Has he not escaped from the Nazi death camp in France, climbed across the Pyrenean Mountains, and found his way to Spain? He can still spot the snow-covered trail winding down, shining in the mist. It is fading out now, vanishing into a cloud, into fog. No, it is not fog anymore but a storm, a raging storm at sea. There he stands, aboard the deck of a small ship, straining to see the dreamy outline of a new shore: Israel. There is a certain glint, the vivid, restless glint of the wanderer, playing in his eyes. It is high noon, but the room is dark. The blinds are drawn. Only a thin plume of daylight reaches in somehow, and writes a bright dot against the shadows. If – like him – you waited long enough, you could actually see the dot bleeding slowly, steadily across the bare floor, rising up over the wall, becoming longer and longer still, until at long last it would fade out, like a sentence unfinished. Dark circles can be noticed around his eyes; which suddenly brings to mind a tired animal, one that has not felt sunshine for a long time. The eyelids fall shut and at once, the glint is gone. An invisible hand is writing on the wall. He knows it in his heart. He bears it in fear and silence.And then, trying to ignore the ticking, the loud, insistent ticking of the clock from the adjacent kitchen, you too would, perhaps, start sensing a presence. Voices would be coming from a different place, a place within. A faint footfall… A soft laughter... Who is there? He glances nervously at the entrance door. Is it locked? Can a stranger get in? Then – quite unexpectedly – the fear subsides and for the first time, gives way to something else. Something wells up in his throat. Why is the door locked? He feels a sudden urge to crawl down, get to that threshold, and cry. Mommy! Open the door! Let me in, mommy! Let me come home! But for now, he can still hold it in. He forces himself to turn away from that door. Somehow it feels lighter in the dark. The bareness of this space, which was once adorned with rich Persian rugs, colorful oil paintings and fine furnishings, is more bearable this way. So is the weight of loneliness.Opposite from him, playing out endlessly, unintelligibly and in quick succession on the TV screen, are strange images from unfamiliar places. Noise. He lets the images come. He lets them go. He has no will. He has no curiosity. But from time to time he stirs, despite the sharp, sudden pain in his wrist. He fumbles at the remote control, wondering why the sound is so distant, so mute. And yet – no matter how much he tries – he finds it impossible to fix that which is broken. The shelves behind him are laden with books, three of which he has written himself in years past. Signed: Blue Wolf.  Here is the poet, a man notorious for his contradictions, a man of a great passion and an equally great skill to capture it, to put it in beautiful, eloquent words in any one of ten languages. Here is the storyteller whose listeners have left him. Locked in a world of no sound, in a world of no expression, here he is: a cage within cage. This is the place where even the wolf surrenders. The fight is over. No more howling. Here, at last, is my father. 

This story, which I had written two years before my father passed away, is now included in my poetry book, Home. 

I thought it appropriate to display one of his own oil paintings. How it evolved fascinates me: He painted the slope of a mountainside, and a moon high above, then archived the painting, never to take another look at it--until, several years later, he unearthed it and asked himself: What if... What if I paint this line here (which became the nose)...
And with that question in mind, the painting became what it was meant to be: A Wandering Jew, with the moonlight that accompanies the life of a nomad.
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Spend some quality time with a Biblical hero

A lovely new review for the audiobook edition of Rise to Power: FollowAmazon CustomerUSA06-10-14OverallPerformanceStory

"Spend some quality time with a Biblical hero"

What made the experience of listening to Rise to Power the most enjoyable?I loved listening to Rise of Power. The match of narrator to text was perfect for this wonderful book. The narrator got the nuances of the Biblical David precisely as one would most like to hear them. A reader can suspend disbelief and feel that David is telling his story.
What did you like best about this story?This story delivers great insight into the life and time of David. The intimacy evoked by the combination of author and narrator weaves a potent spell. The tale took me to the Biblical world in all its color, danger, and grandeur.
What does David George bring to the story that you wouldn’t experience if you just read the book?David George's narration is gritty and knowledgeable, smooth and yet prickly. He sounds as if he allows the characters to inhabit him and use his voice.
If you were to make a film of this book, what would the tag line be?David...the Untold Story.

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"A tale of madmen and kings, youth and old age, prison cells and freedom's ring..."