Friday, November 30, 2012

When Love was Complicated and Furious

I am truly moved by this review of Apart From Love, written by one of my earliest readers, Angela Davis, whose poems I have been following for the last few months:


5.0 out of 5 stars incredible read!May 26, 2012
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This review is from: Apart From Love (Paperback)
Apart From Love is an inspiring novel by an amazing woman who is a writer, poet, sculptor, painter, and more. This novel spurred me to write again, and delved into my soul in a way that no other novel has done in many years. The intensity of characters, and their interconnections with one another, will entrance the reader, and remind us of the times when love was complicated and furious, yet honest and real. The voices of the primary characters are genuine and touching, and the story will encapture even the most jaded persons. A true voice here, a brilliant search into what can be and what truly is.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

I have just finished reading Home. WOW!

How rewarding it is to get a review from a reader who is not only a truck driver who has seen most of the continental US through her work--but a writer as well! Having received an autographed copy of my poetry book Home, Cindy J. Smith, the author of Voices In My Head, has just posted her awesome review on Amazon, Goodreads and Barnes and Noble:


5.0 out of 5 stars A Father's MemoriesNovember 28, 2012
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This review is from: Home (Paperback)
I have just finished reading Home. WOW! I could feel Uvi's father's yearning in his poems. Her love for him and her being able to finally understand is evident in the introductory poems also. I was especially moved by Muse. In this poem Uvi sees for herself that her father has now returned to his love, his mother, his muse. Such heartfelt understanding! I'm Not Sorry, by her father, shows how he has found the true things to be sorry for, not flowers picked but hearts broken. With Reparations, I was swept up in the confusion of explaining that the loss of loved ones was more important than the loss of things. Her Father's attempt to share the total loss of being Jewish in WW1. Reading When Life Becomes a Curse, I felt the pain of giving up on life. I felt the unending heartache caused by the loss of family, love and friends.
Such a moving piece of work. Thank you for taking the time to translate these moving pieces to English that I was able to enjoy them.


Saturday, November 24, 2012

My characters will come right out of this cover

The party's over... In just a bit
This place will be quiet, and solemn and lit
By the last rays of sun as the evening descends
And I'll miss you all, for now we are friends

And as you leave here, you'll be taking with you
A big part of me, the best, the most true: 
As the pages will rustle, take a good look
For my story unfurls as you open this book

My characters will come right out of this cover
They're now in your hands, mother, father, child, brother
Even in silence, catch the music of words 
Hear me at nightfall... No more chirping of birds... 


A family Saga
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Historical Fiction with a Modern Twist...
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Wednesday, November 21, 2012

A Celebration: Amidst the Glow

"Then, all of the sudden, amidst the glow, he finds himself standing at the banks of a lake with his daddy. He lets go of his daddy’s hand, flings a stone and at once he can spot—right there, in the middle of the lake—a ripple taking shape. One circle rises magically inside another, widening, riding out farther and farther until at long last it fades out. White lilies can be seen floating all around. One of them is right here, at arms reach. Only a thin line, the line of illusion, separates the petal from its white reflection. And underneath it, schools of golden fish scurry in one direction, then take a sharp turn and flow elsewhere."

An excerpt from Home.

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"Absolutely Stunning!" "scenes of such exquisite depth and beauty"

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

What's On Your Desk?

One of my readers asked to describe what I see when I look at my desk, to which I said: 

Since I am an artist, poet and writer, the best way to show you the surface is my painting. As a creator, I see myself this way: I paint with a pen, write with a paintbrush. My art strives to tell a story, and my stories strive to bring you into the scene being painted, letting you sense everything my characters touch, see, or hear.




This is an oil painting of my work surface seen from above. My tools are traveling across the surface as if they have some target in mind... I like the reflection of my rag in the painting knife, and the black spill on the floor, which is like a 'thought bubble' coming out of the turpentine jar.

I love describing my characters at their desk, because their manner of writing is so telling. Here is an excerpt from The White Piano:


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. 

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Monday, November 19, 2012

About to Fly Away

Am I a leaf about to drift 
About to fly away, to chance
The cold, the heat, the drop, the lift
Upon the wing of wind, to dance?
Or else, nestled in this tree
Am I to stay, and thus be free?
Here I am, Apart From Love
Flying Home just like a dove


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Friday, November 16, 2012

X’s and O’s for Kisses and Hugs

"She locked herself in and started writing letters, some of which were never sent, for fear of revealing too much of her loneliness. Other letters she embellished along the margins, with a hand heavy with years but with the manner of a schoolgirl: She embellished them with pink flowers and long sequences of X’s and O’s for kisses and hugs, and then she sent them to that foreign sounding address, so that her grandchildren, who rarely came to visit, would know she loved them.
How would a doorknob feel to be barely touched, its latch rarely released, the lock always bolted shut? How would it feel to be in the grip of rust? 
She glanced at the doorknob. Would it retain a memory of her touch, even when she is gone? Would it keep, in its own transparent ways and despite all that polishing, the layers upon layers of all their fingerprints?"

This is an excerpt from a short story which I titled Even One Mark. The inspiration for it came from what I heard on a phone call from the other end of an ocean, from Israel: it came on my birthday, so for a moment I thought that congratulations and good wishes would be the topic of the conversation--only to learn that unfortunately, my mother-in-law had just passed away. In the early days of my marriage I perceived her, as most young brides do, as a formidable force, and it took me many years to look past the power game. To my surprise I found out not only that I appreciated her strength and her knack for survival, but that I loved her dearly. And so, I wrote this story to reveal the softer, most volunrable side of her character. 

This is how the story ends:

"The wind whipped the pages out of her lap. They flew around her, some settling to the ground, some flipping higher, flapping into a big clutter in the air, then floating dreamily away across the landscape. In years past she would get up, catch them one by one and stack them back, with a strict attention to order; but now she didn’t care anymore. For a moment she thought she could see that page, the one she had marked X with a trembling hand. There it was, a white glimmer soaring out of reach above her in the wind. And then, in one puff, it was over. 
Somewhere inside, a doorknob broke. A door flew open."

I drew this charcoal sketch a couple of weeks ago with a similar feeling of  loss.

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"HOME is an invitation, a very personal one, and should not be passed over"