Tuesday, March 29, 2016

In the spirit of spring: A warm sweet feeling infiltrated her heart

A warm sweet feeling infiltrated her heart–like the coffee Olivia had earlier forced into her cold, shocked hands. Holding his gaze was doing something funny to her insides, and she looked away while nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You know, I could probably raise hell until they let you stay in the room. Just a perk of the occupation.”
Jack was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted. At this, her mind stopped processing anything but that thought as she seriously considered what he offered. He was right. Tristan was a rock star’s son. That came with such privileges. Although she often condemned this sort of spoiled celebrity behavior, she now completely related when it came to a situation such as this. Protectively, she would have done anything a few minutes ago to stay in that room.
Nodding, she replied, “I’ll think about it. But, it’s okay for now. If he–if he gets worse, I would want to. Or, if he wakes up and they don’t let me.”
“Tell me. Okay? Anything you need.”
“Okay.” A gulp lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t look away. This was the considerate, chivalric man she remembered.
This was the man who had offered her a cold drink on a hot day, who had seemed embarrassed to hand her a pen and a legal document during a kiss, who had held and touched her like a lover not a quick lay where countless others had lain, who had gently kissed her before holding the door open as she walked out of his life.

Excerpt from Jack Who? by Lisa Gillis, included in A Touch of Passion

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Sunday, March 27, 2016

Dark, heartbreaking, tragic..awful but beautiful!

A lovely review for my book, Twisted:

5.0 out of 5 starsDark, heartbreaking, tragic..awful but beautiful!March 23, 2016
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Twisted (Kindle Edition)
The artistry, unique properties, classic dark with contemporary and fantastic structure.
This collection was reminiscent of playwrights and poets from time past "twisted" with the modern.
Lines from I am What I am.
"He ( Satan) turns to me with a sly look. To my surprise, his smile- even with those sharp fangs - is quite endearing.. His voice is sweet. He must have sung in a choir in his youth, because in some ways, he sounds as pious as my husband." - Job's Wife on a Journey through Hell.
Well done. 5+ stars !

Thursday, March 24, 2016

A delightful, inciteful read with a strong dose of found and lost love and passion, interlaced with a touch of humor

Dan Strawn is the author of Isaac's GunBody of Work, and Breakfast at Blair'sLame Bird's Legacy, and Black Wolf's ReturnI am truly honored to find his review of my novel, The Music of Us:

on March 23, 2016
If you're new to Uvi Poznansky's considerable talents, you are in for a treat when you open up The Music of Us.

If you are already a fan of Poznansky's knack for storytelling, then you won't be disappointed, but you will be surprised. At least I was, and delighted too, with the way she doused her story of love and passion, both won and lost, with well timed interludes of humor. Previously, I've not seen her use such well refined bits of comic relief—some flirting with irony, some bordering on slapstick— in ways that meld with the story, making it stronger, more believable by accentuating love's embrace and desires intensity. Her deft anointing of Uncle Schmeel, Natasha's mother, and Ryan's erstwhile girlfriend as both originators and butts of whim and amusement makes them creditable, enjoyable witnesses to Lenny and Natasha's romance.

Consider these tastes of Uvi's new command of spontaneous silliness:

Leaning forward on her elbow and cupping all three of her chins in her hand, the old woman studied me at great length. At last she said, “It's more generous than anyone can imagine, to the point that it makes me wonder.”

'About What?”

“About your wisdom, naturally! Because if you're clever then I must worry about your intentions, and if you're not, then I must worry why Natasha would fall in love with such a nincompoop. Either way, I must protect her.”

And in another scene:

“Oh, forget them.”
“Yeah. Drat those English ladies!”
“Amen,” I said, absentmindedly.
“So to make a short story long,” she droned on, “let me tell you about what happened at that party.”

As any reader of her past work knows, Uvi is The Supreme Mistress of the first person. In this tale she surpasses her own mastery of first-person narration. She slides so delicately from present to past tense and back to present, from Lenny's voice to Natasha's, that only when you can't find the shift from one to another do you realize it has taken place. She makes me envious, since I consider myself well seasoned in this particular way of telling a story.

My sense is that Uvi Poznansky is a poet first, and then a story teller. No surprise then, that The Music of Us oozes poetic expression in subtle and delightful ways.

Poznansky's use of emotive poetry in her prose is remarkable.

Then sparks came raining down, all the way down through the hollowed floors. They hit the ammunition, then the gasoline, and soon the whole place caught on fire. The blaze roared with such maddening intensity in my head that I paid no attention to the silence, the sudden silence on Aaron's radio. Its battery must have run out of power. It was dead.

I stared at the surface of its wood, which arched into the shape of a cathedral, and prayed that I could still find a touch, a fingerprint, a remnant of Aaron's presence on it.

And there, opposite me, my parent's wedding picture used to hang. In its place, a faint rectangle started to appear, as the wall paint all around it had darkened over the years. Everywhere I turned there were blank rectangles marking the boundaries of missing picture frames, of old memories.


For all of its other achievements, a story is a failure if it doesn't entertain. The Music of Us let me admire the writers craftsmanship while being caught up in Lenny's moment—moved by his circumstance, feeling his love for Natasha, mourning his loss. Ergo—I was entertained. Kudos, Uvi, for a story well told.

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Twitter power by the numbers

This is so cool! I have 21K Twitter followers now. 

So here is a look at Twitter's performance report for @UviPoznansky
  • Your Tweets earned 52,567 impressions over the last 24 hours 
  • Your Tweets earned 1.5M impressions over this 28 day period
Thank all of you for taking note of what I write.

Monday, March 21, 2016

One evening I awaken to the sound of birds, chirping

One evening I awaken to the sound of birds, chirping. I get up from my bed and walk around on the roof of the palace, where a red-rumped swallow is trying out its skill in a courtship song. It is springtime. The hills around my city roll in and out of green. The trees beacon me from afar, bearing their blossoms.
Through the decorative lattice that marks the edge of my roof I see a woman, an achingly beautiful woman bathing on a close-by roof. She has just wrapped herself with something translucent, so her body is hidden from sight—all but a distant impression of her foot. 
The first time I saw Bathsheba, back in Hebron, happened seven years ago. Luckily, at that time I had no historians in my employ, which is why that incident has gone unnoticed, and unrecorded in the scrolls. It remains known to me alone, and to her. 

At the time I doubted she had caught sound of my footfalls. I edged closer, advancing stealthily along the shadow, a seemingly endless shadow cast across the flat surface of her roof. Never once did I stop to remind myself that such behavior is unbecoming of a king.
And who could blame me? In her presence I was reduced to a boy.
I brought my crown along, simply to impress her, even though it sat somewhat uncomfortably on my head. It was a bit too large for me, and too loose, too, because it had been fashioned to fit the skull of my predecessor, Saul.
On my way I leapt across a staircase, leading down from the roof. On a railing, there in front of me, was a large Egyptian towel, laying there as if to mark a barrier. I told myself, This isn’t right. I should stop, stop right here and whatever happens I should cover my eyes, avoid taking a peep at her.
Should I turn back? 
And immediately I answered by asking, What? Stopping midway is nothing short of a sin. You would never forgive yourself.
To which I replied, stop talking to yourself already! Are you out of your mind?

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Our walks that spring

During our walks that spring, dad would point out the tree: Its fiery red flowers, that looked like fat pinecones at the tips of irregular, twisting branches, and the seeds, which in certain species were used for medicinal purposes by indigenous peoples. The seeds were toxic, he warned, and could cause fatal poisoning. I learned that mature Coral trees should be watered frequently—but not during the summer months. In fact, he said, the less water in summer, the more flowers you can expect the following spring.
I cross two lanes of traffic, come closer to one of those Naked Coral Trees, and  with great awe, brush my fingers across the trunk. It is a contorted, elephantine thing, with a roughly textured bark, and thick roots clinging fiercely to the earth. This being early October there are no flowers, no leaves, even. The tree seems to take on a humanoid appearance, as if it were the body of a character, or even several characters, mangled beyond recognition. 
It is a stunning sight, which has fascinated me since childhood. Above me, the bare limbs—some of which have been pruned recently—are branching apart, and looking at them you can imagine a knee here, an elbow there, someone wrestling, someone in embrace. 
As you walk past them, the trees seem to tell you a story line by line, scene by scene. In one tree I could see a man and a woman, kissing; in another, a father and son.
I remember one time, during our Saturday stroll, I asked my father for some details about his family. At first he seemed relaxed enough to tell me—at more length than usual—about my grandfather, whom I never met, because he had died long before I was born. I got a distinct sense that dad was, somehow, still afraid of the old man, who had pressed him hard to achieve that which he himself had failed to become: a lawyer. 
“So,” I asked, “what did you do?” 
A brief laughter erupted on his lips. “I told him that I had registered at the university, and would be majoring in Law, just as he had always wished—but somehow I neglected to mention that the closest I ever came to registering was flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet, and dreaming about something else.”
“And,” I hesitated to ask, “did he ever find out?”
“Well,” said my father, and in a flash, his face turned red, “if it occurred to the old man that this might have been a nasty lie, he admirably concealed it.”
I listen to his voice, which is still here, echoing in my head, and all of a sudden I grasp that he grew embarrassed not only because of his obligation to his father—but to me as well. Perhaps a sudden sense of shame caught up to him, shame for falling short of becoming an acceptable role model. Or else he had a premonition—a fear, even—of how I would treat him, not too far in what was then the future.

Excerpt from Apart from Love

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Sunday, March 20, 2016

We still haven’t figured out when we’ll be able to meet over the holiday

We chat about Christmas, and what our families will be doing.  Brian just found out the other day that his brother won’t be coming this year.  He’s got just the one brother, Jack, twelve years older than him.  The story is that Jack went into the army right after high school, got sent to Germany, got married, and stayed there after he was discharged.  He’s got two kids that Brian’s never even met.   Apparently, there was some hope that Jack would bring the family back here this Christmas, but it fell through.  I think it’s really sad, that Brian has a niece and nephew he hasn’t ever met.  
We still haven’t figured out when we’ll be able to meet over the holiday.  I guess we’ll just have to play that by ear.  We’ve got nine days to be together before then, though, and I intend to make the most of them.

Excerpt from Dream Student by James DiBenedetto, included in At Odds with Destiny

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Saturday, March 19, 2016


J.A. Schneider is a former staffer at Newsweek. Once a Liberal Arts major (French Literature), she has become increasingly fascinated with medicine, forensic science, and human psychology. Here is her beautiful review of the audiobook edition of The Music of Us
Would you listen to The Music of Us again? Why?
Yes. The narrator Don Warrick's performance is mesmerizing. I'd already read Book 3, the story of when Lenny and Natasha first met - he a young WWII Marine falling head over heels for the brilliant young pianist. Don Warrick's performance took my breath away as he brought these characters to life.

What other book might you compare The Music of Us to and why?
"The Winds of War" television series comes first to mind, the falling in love part, and also the author's so heartfelt job researching the events and history of the period. 

Which character – as performed by Don Warrick – was your favorite?
Two characters: Natasha and Natasha's mom. And Lenny! This is a hard question because the narrator does such a superb job of tugging at your heartstrings with all the characters. 

Was there a moment in the book that particularly moved you?
Most poignant for me was the subject of Alzheimer's Disease, and the effect it has on a loved one. The narrator did such a superb job that he had me in tears. 

Any additional comments?
This was my first Audiobook! But it won't be my last because hearing this story actually told and so beautifully was a thrill. I am grateful to this Audiobook because it has opened a whole new kind of story telling for me!

It’s emptier than a hog pen on Easter Sunday in here

The young woman gave Polly Anna a soft smile of encouragement and said, “Sweetheart, it’s emptier than a hog pen on Easter Sunday in here, do you think you can pour me that drink?”
Polly Anna burst out laughing, which was unusual in a woman as pessimistic as our Polly Anna, and something I’d never thought to hear from her. Polly Anna’s reaction, combined with the woman’s nasally Yankee accent spewing the southern saying confidently, had me totally transfixed. That and the fact that I was dying for her to take off her coat so I could see if what it was keeping warm was as fine as what I’d seen so far.

I don’t know if it was what the young woman said or the fact that such a fancy lady said it, but Polly Anna couldn’t stop chuckling and snorting as she moved to the liquor well, filled a glass with ice, and poured the whiskey without necessity of a shot glass.

Excerpt from Just in Case by Elizabeth Marx, included in A Touch of Passion

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Friday, March 18, 2016

Warm spring air coming in, blowing gently into my face

Next morning I’m sent home empty-handed, while my baby must stay at the hospital a few more days, to get something called colored light therapy, ‘cause like, he’s been diagnosed with jaundice. But does anyone care? Hello there? I try to call home, for Lenny to come pick me up—but as usual I end up just managing, somehow, to get back on my own. 
I open the bedroom window, and feel warm spring air coming in, blowing gently into my face, which feels like a promise. Like, it’s gonna be good. It’s gonna be a beautiful day. 
I rewind the musical mobile, and listen to it chiming, chiming, chiming over my head for a long while. And there I stand listening, not knowing what to do, not wanting to admit to myself how I feel. Anyhow I’m glad you can’t see me sniffling, and blotting the corner of my eye, ‘cause like, there isn’t no one here I can hug, and no one to hug me right back.

Excerpt from My Own Voice

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Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from Love
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