Uvi’s Comments (group member since Apr 09, 2012)

Uvi’s comments from the The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky group.

#99cents #sale: A Favorite Son

Read it now: A favorite Son
Enjoy the tale that I have spun
About two brothers, greed, rivalry
Who will stay? And who will flee
Forever haunted by regret?
The book is here, for you to get!

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...

To read more click here:
We all knew that the instrument was sacred. It was not to be touched

Somewhere at night a string sings out
All's dark, silent, filled with doubt
I'm alone, and you?
Out there, in the cold, a string sings out

To read more, click here:
After You're Gone

Munia wrote: "Thank you very much for this wonderful group dear Uvi. I shall be active on a regular basis soon enough..Thanks a lot for your great poetry posted here..Enjoyed reading them."

Aw... My pleasure Munia, glad to hear your voice!

"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..."

To read more click here:
The line reaches the margin, where it is punctuated by a red stain

Just updated the book description for Apart From Love, this captures more of the story, check it out:

Secrets, passion, betrayal...
Coming back to his childhood home after years of absence, Ben is unprepared for the secret, which is now revealed to him: his mother, Natasha, who used to be a brilliant pianist, is losing herself to early-onset Alzheimer's, which turns the way her mind works into a riddle. His father has remarried, and his new wife, Anita, looks remarkably similar to Natasha--only much younger. In this state of being isolated, being apart from love, how will Ben react when it is so tempting to resort to blame and guilt? "In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive--but so seldom do you give it to others."

Behind his father's back, Ben and Anita find themselves increasingly drawn to each other. They take turns using an old tape recorder to express their most intimate thoughts, not realizing at first that their voices are being captured by him. These tapes, with his eloquent speech and her slang, reveal the story from two opposite viewpoints.

What emerges in this family is a struggle, a desperate, daring struggle to find a path out of conflicts, out of isolation, from guilt to forgiveness.

Where does the title, Apart From Love, come from?
The word Love is used sparingly in the novel, which makes it ever more precious. The title comes from a phrase used three times in the story:

After a while I whispered, like, "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.
Anita

Why, why can't you say nothing? Say any word--but that one, 'cause you don't really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.
Anita

For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now--even in her absence--I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded--and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.
Ben

Justin Harmer will be playing David, and every one of his wives, advisors, and enemies, in the upcoming audiobook edition of A Peek at Bathsheba. Want to know why I chose him? How could I not, with this audition? Take a listen:

Playing David

And so, I charge him, “It is always secrets with you. I hate you for that."
Which, to my surprise, he accepts. "I hate it too,” he admits. “Having to have secrets."
“With mom,” I say, “things are simpler. You know, from time to time she would tell me something about herself. She would write to me, even.”
“Oh yeah?” he says. “And how long ago was that?”
I figure that the last note I received from mom was—let’s see—at least two years ago, maybe three. It amazes me now that all this time, I have given little thought, if any, to the silence between us.
I suppose I did not feel like telling her about myself, because around that time I quit everything. I left my studies at the Facoltà di Medicina e Chirurgia in the university of Firenze, after only a couple of years. And so, I figured, the less letters from my parents—the better.
I isolated myself, and attributed the sporadic nature of our correspondence to the frequent changes of my address, as I moved often, from one place to another across Italy.
“And her handwriting,” says my father, pressing steadily ahead. “To you, son, was it clear?”
Her beautiful handwriting. It is engraved in my memory. As a child, I used to study it and copy it repeatedly, beginning at age five, when she wrapped her hand over mine, and taught me how to hold a pen. Between the first and middle fingers, she said, and hold it in place like this, by the thumb.
Mom used to draw text with the nib of a calligraphy pen. She would produce a smooth, fluent line, changing it—as if by a magic wand—from thick to thin, connecting the end of one glyph to the beginning of the another, with a stroke that was so fine, truly, fine to the point of becoming invisible, almost. It had such a consistent slant, just like that monogram, embroidered on her silk sheets.
But then, this note—the last note she sent me—which I can see before my eyes as if it were right here, rustling in my hands, this one, I must admit, was different. It had none of these delicate pen strokes.
On the contrary, here was an ugly mess. The words were scattered. Some of them were scratched over, as if some frenzied chickens got loose on the page. What happened? What could possibly explain this unusual sloppiness?>

Ben in Apart From Love

After many years of absence Ben returns to his childhood home, and finds himself faced with a truth that he has so far managed to hide from himself: his mother, a gifted pianist with a training in memorization technique, has been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. His father, Lenny, who has kept this a secret until now, has a hard time relating this fact to his estranged son, and during their first conversation they cast heated accusations at each other, in an explosive exchange of guilt and blame. In this excerpt he uses the deterioration in her penmanship to point out a symptom of her infliction, a proof that Ben might accept.

How do we preserve memory, how we lose it? I am fascinated by these questions. My novel, Apart From Love, is inspired by the affect of Alzheimer's not only on the afflicted but on the entire family. Ben's mother used to be a gifted pianist and is now stricken by early-onset Alzheimer’s, a rare form...

To read more, click here:
How do we preserve memory, how do we lose it?

Mayank wrote: "Hope to share much more with you in coming days!! Thanks again:) "

Looking forward to reading more from your pen :)

Mayank wrote: "Just Finished A Deadly Triangle- Afghanistan, Pakistan and India by William Dalrymple

Here's my Review as well as my thoughts, Please share your thoughts on my writing, critical and honest commen..."

Mayank, this is a great review, which itself is a well thought out essay! Truly enjoyed reading it, and visiting your website, too.

Just finished reading Wizard Weather and here is my review:

If you are yet unfamiliar with The Sacred Band, Wizard Weather offers a prefect first glimpse into this complex mythological universe and its heroic characters. And what an unexpected glimpse: The story here starts at the point of arousal, the excitement of which is closely associated with the risk of death: “Now the First Hazard glimpses her movements… Sputtering with sensations that for years he has assumed he has outgrown… The song she sings has cost her much to learn, and the death she staves off will not be so kind as his.”

The story also ends on the same note, which makes this particular book a juicy, yet highly literary read, written by Janet Morris in her exquisite, lyrical style: “Promise or threat, he was not certain, but he was reasonably sure that he could deal with her, either way.”

Indeed, a killing mist swirls through the Sanctuary, which heightens the dangers facing Tempus, his beloved Niko, and the rest of the Sacred Band stepsons. In this heroic story, dangers—as represented by gods and immortal beings, such as Stormbringer or Askelon of Meridian, lord of dreams—are the highest form of a call to duty, a challenge to rise to your better self and find your courage. It is no accident that in the midst of all the excitement, conflicts and battles, Niko is yearning to find his ‘Maat’ (internal balance. I assume that the name is inspired by the goddess of truth, justice, and cosmic order, daughter of Ra.)

Five stars.

I don't know how Justin Harmer found my work. I consider myself lucky for it, because he placed an audition for it. Take a listen to an excerpt from the upcoming audiobook edition of A Peek at Bathsheba...

To read more, and listen to the narration, click here:
The voice behind A Peek at Bathsheba

"And so, my trusty soldier fought his last battle. Perhaps, at the last second—as the arrow was singing in the air, coming closer and closer at him, like a lover eager for a kiss—his eyes started to widen.
Perhaps he knew that his death would not be caused by that arrow, but by the hand of a woman, the one he loved..."

To read more, click here: He died by the hand of a woman, the one he loved

Darren wrote: "Thank you for inviting me here, I am a poet and I have some self published eBooks available online, Englishman living in Italy"

My pleasure Darren! You are welcome here, and I invite you to post your poetry from time to time in the Writing discussion board, with a reference to your published ebooks.

In this excerpt I explore the moment of anticipation, before Bathsheba comes to David. He can still back down from going ahead with this forbidden affair, which is why I make frequent mention of the presence of the tent of God, the presence of his conscience. Is this a moment of pure love? Lust? Decadence? I explore all these possibilities...

To read more, click here: Love? Lust? Or decadence?

Just finished reading The Light at the Bottom of the Garden and here is my review:

This is a murder mystery, embellished with red herring of the Australian variety, to keep you guessing till the end. At its core, it presents the question: which one provides more guidance: reasoning, as exemplified by Mick Creedy, the head of the police force, who is investigating the murder—or intuition, masked at times as superstition and faith in magical forces, as exemplified in Eveling, the mother of a young woman who has mysteriously gone missing.

The conflict between Mick and Eveling drives the story forward, through all its twists and turns. “As she was driving off, Mick’s reflection in the mirror, his face a mask of worry, gave her a sharp pang of regret. Mick would be very unhappy if he knew her plans. Because she intended to go to the waterhole alone the next night. It was something she had to do… Mick didm;t understand because he didn’t believe in the paranormal.”

The author builds a delightful atmosphere of suspense: “A sudden splashing and clatter near the water had her wheeling around in fright. She breathed a sign of relief to see it was a small mob of horses that had made the racket. Their eyes burned bright in the light from her torch. She was too jumpy!” And just as we are allowed to relax for an instant, comes the real danger…

And just as Mick arrives in the nick of time, using his practical wit to solve the murder, the author, John Holland, leaves us with a final nod of recognition for the sixth sense, leaving the conflict open for us to weigh in.

Five stars.

Don’t open your eyes
Try not to see
Things are no longer
Where things ought to be

That voice—is it her?
Behind a closed door
She calls you a stranger
Your mother no more

Breathe through the moment
Turn, turn your eyes
The past you imagined
Was all lies, lies, lies

Things are no longer
Where things ought to be
Who is this stranger
Is it still me?

(included in Home)

The Kindle edition is still on a kindle countdown deal!
Home http://bookShow.me/B00960TE3Y

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Get HOME


Book Description:

Home. A simple word; a loaded one. You can say it in a whisper; you can say it in a cry. Expressed in the voices of father and daughter, you can hear a visceral longing for an ideal place, a place never to be found again.

Imagine the shock, imagine the sadness when a daughter discovers her father’s work, the poetry he had never shared with anyone during the last two decades of his life. Six years after that moment of discovery, which happened in her childhood home while mourning for his passing, Uvi Poznansky presents a tender tribute: a collection of poems and prose, half of which is written by her, and half—by her father, the author, poet and artist Zeev Kachel. She has been translating his poems for nearly a year, with careful attention to rhyme and rhythm, in an effort to remain faithful to the spirit of his words.

Zeev’s writing is always autobiographical in nature; you can view it as an ongoing diary of his life. Uvi’s writing is rarely so, especially when it comes to her prose. She is a storyteller who delights in conjuring up various figments of her imagination, and fleshing them out on paper. She sees herself chasing her characters with a pen, in an attempt to see the world from their point of view, and to capture their voices. But in some of her poems, she offers you a rare glimpse into her most guarded, intensely private moments, yearning for Home.

Just finished reading Pam of Babylon and here is my review:

When a book starts from a seemingly perfect place for the character, you know he is not going to stay there long… So when Jack Smith is looking at the face of Sandra, his mistress, thinking “I am the luckiest man alive,” his luck is at its end. Not only would Marie, his wife’s sister, find out about his affair, but he would to live long enough to try to handle the scandal with Pam, his meek, trusting wife.

While he is cheating on her, Pam waits excitedly for his return. “She had the week to prepare for his homecoming… she tried to make it an oasis for him.” Despite her trust in Jack, she knows intuitively that things between them are not quite right. “There was a tiny, itsy bit of doubt, a niggling worry, an insecurity in the back of her mind. He was disconnected from her.”

When she gets a call from the hospital that Jack has died from a heart attack, Pam goes to pieces and then, gradually, reassembles them, finding a new strength in herself. She now learns the truth about him and a few of the women with whom he betrayed her. Sandra, too, goes through grief: “Her life had changed overnight.”

This book is about looking forward to restart life already, even in the presence of death. It is about healing, part of which comes from forgiveness. I know this sounds strange to some readers, who find Pam’s behavior ’too unreal.” Apparently it is easier and perhaps more natural for many of us to succumb to vengefulness. At the same time, this is exactly why this book is so fascinating. It offers a different possibility, a more hopeful one. “There was something about cleaning up, washing everything, that spoke of new beginnings.”

The author, Suzanne Jenkins, stated that she wrote the character as the opposite of herself. “I am at the opposite end of the spectrum of reactions....I wouldn't be forgiving and embracing.” Yet I feel that by the end of the story Pam inhabits her to such a degree that her words come straight from the heart, gut, and mind.

Five stars.