Wednesday, January 31, 2018

I’m Not Sorry

A poem by my father, Zeev Kachel

I'm not sorry for the hours that I wasted
Suspended in my dreams and idle thought
I'm not sorry for the days I ruined
The only thing I care about is the luster I did blot

I care that that’s the way our lives are going
In power games, for which we'll pay the price,
I ache, because of our misunderstanding
Because that which is between us turned hard as ice

I care nothing for the roses that have withered 
Over their fleeting fragrance I will shed no tears
What pains me now is the way I hurt you
And that if I ask forgiveness, no one hears

No way to settle this, to heal the cuts
In this world there's a price for everything
The echo of our steps is the witness left behind us
As the light that glowed upon us is already blackening.

Excerpt from Home


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"I was dazed with the beautiful enormity of emotions as I read through the pages of this eloquent read. The range in which this read has stretched my heart and soul through an abundant of emotions that have enraptured my mind. I found myself laughing with joy for the wonder of greatness felt." 
De Ann Townes Jr., Poet


Will you tell me already?



I could hear the bedsprings moan under the weight of her Mama. Perhaps now she was sitting up, pulling the bedspread all the way up to her three chins, and adjusting the glasses over her nose so she can glare at me over their frame, even though I was all the way across the ocean. 
I imagined seeing her cheeks through those lenses, with a detailed, dilated view of the crinkles under the droopy eyelids. 
“I’m sure that waking us up makes no difference to you,” she said.
To which I said, “Why would you think that, Mrs. Horowitz?”
“Because,” she said, “you must think that we here in the Big Apple are up and about around the clock, and besides, we can’t wait to get a call from an important persona such as yourself at any time whatsoever, day or night!”
Utterly dumfounded I could not bring myself to say another word, which made it all the more difficult to put together a whole sentence, to beg her to wake up her daughter.
So I was just about to say goodbye and so sorry, my mistake, this will never happen again, I promise, when all of a sudden Mrs. Horowitz said, “Natasha isn’t here.”
“What?” I cried. 
“You deaf? I said, she isn’t here!”
“Where, then, is she?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You’re her Mama! Aren’t you supposed to know?”
“It’s all your fault,” she said.
To which I said, “Naturally.”
She had always been known for being overbearing, but even for her, this relentless attack on me seemed a bit much, which made me realize, suddenly, that this was her way of dealing with something else, something that made her feel powerless.
And indeed, a heartbeat later she started crying. “I’m very, very worried about Natasha,” she sniveled. “And because of this I wasn’t able to fall sleep all night!”
I hesitated to point out that according to her own words, Mrs. Horowitz had just been rudely arisen from a snooze. 
Instead I asked, “Did Natasha say where she was going?”
“She did,” said her Mama, in a teary voice.
“And—”
“And you’re not going to believe it. I heard it with my own ears and I still can’t believe it.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “Tell me!”
“Natasha,” she said, “is a delicate girl.”
“She’s a princess.” 
“Exactly! And until you showed up in her life, she was in a slumber, so to speak. She lived in a world of dreams, smiling at a rainbow, crying for a lost star, and giving herself to nothing else but her music, all of which made it easy for me to manage her career. Well, perhaps ‘easy’ is not the right word, ‘possible’ is. But no, not anymore! Now, unfortunately, my daughter knows what she wants and has an opinion of her own about every little thing, which of course has to be the exact opposite of mine, and the worst thing is, she takes bold action about it, which is quite clearly a mistake, and she does it with half-witted haste, which means that as forceful as I thought I was, I can do little to stand in her way. Oh my, she is out of control!”
“So sorry to hear it,” I said. “But—”
“You should be, because without me by her side, guiding her, she’s going to find herself in trouble in a big hurry.”
“Will you tell me already?” I said. “Where is she?”

Lenny in Dancing with Air


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"The writing of this intense story of love and heartbreak is what makes it a classic. You'll go through the wringer with this one, but you'll never forget it."
 ~J.A. Schneider, author


Saturday, January 27, 2018

Sunlight glows all around her



Leaning over my chamber window to watch the sun rising I think I spot something new: a silhouette standing there, at the edge of the royal garden, where it falls into a deep ravine. Sunlight glows all around her. To see her more clearly I must squint. 
There she stands, facing away from me: a dark figure with a slender, long shadow fluttering over the field of flowers behind her. She reminds me of my daughter and of her self-imposed absence from my home. No longer does she consider it safe. 
Raising a thin arm, the figure waves a hand and releases something into the wind. It flaps once or twice between the ground-sweeping branches of the weeping willows. Then it flies higher, hovering for awhile, till at last it soars away.
I follow it as it glides this way and that in the direction of a distant oak tree, on the other side of the ravine. Caught up there, at the tip of the highest limb, the thing flickers, its folds steaming in the air like the feathers of a wounded dove. 
Hours later, when the diplomats, advisors, generals, suppliers, architects, carpenters, contractors, lawyers, tax collectors and brick layers have all retired for the day, I find myself free to ride out there, beyond the edge the royal garden. On my way there, a magical mist hangs all around me, like tears, suspended. 
It must have rained earlier that day, because the soil is soft. It gives way under the hooves of my stallion. Sloshing around that oak tree I come to realize what it is, hanging down from its highest branch: a shred of Tamar’s garment, her coat of many colors. The fabric is aglow in the evening sun, releasing every reflection, every hue of the rainbow, up to the border of a large, irregular stain of browned blood.



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"How Ms. Poznansky created such a vivid, detailed, true-to-life account leaves me awestruck. It's as if she peered inside the Bible, spoke with the characters and witnesses who were there, and then created a realistic and moving portrait of David's life." 
Aaron Paul Lazar, Author

Friday, January 26, 2018

Tell me 5 interesting things about you

I was asked to mention 5 interesting facts about me, so here goes:
  • I taught myself to swim breast stroke, so my style is rather unusual to observe, but it works, somehow... lol. I do my laps for a whole hour, twice a week.
  • I cannot sing to save my life, which is just the reason why I adore anyone who can. Perhaps that is why my characters have musical talents. I would like to think that I have a feel for rhythm, which expresses itself in my poetry, but music is more than a beat, it allows you to soar over the notes.
  • In both my series, The David Chronicles and Still Life with Memories, I find it amazing--and hope you will too--to live in the skin of the character through an entire series of novels, and to experience events from youth to old age. In a way, this is similar to the way I sculpt: I let the figure age under my fingers, letting it go back and forth in time until I fix its features and its skin.
  • I am an artist, poet, and author. I have published 25 books, including novels, novellas, poetry collections, and children’s books. My art and my writing are two sides of the same coin: I write with my paintbrush, and paint with words. In art, I use different mediums, which enriches my designs: I sculpt (in bronze, clay, and paper); I draw in charcoal, ink, and pencils; I paint in watercolor and oils and create animations. Similarly, in my literary work I write in different genres, which enriches my thinking. 
  • I find great joy in working on challenging projects with other creative individuals. This is especially true when I am working on the audiobook editions of my books with amazingly talented voice artists. A special mention here to Bob Sterry, who narrated The Edge of Revolt, to Don Warrick, who narrated The Music of Us, Dancing with Air, and Marriage before Death, to Justin Harmer who narrated A Peek at Bathsheba, to David George, who narrated Rise to Power, to David Kudler, who narrated A Favorite Son and The White Piano, to Heather Jane Hogan who narrated My Own Voice and Twisted, and to Kathy Bell Denton who narrated Home. Each one of them has amazing talent. They've given voice to a host of characters and breathed life into my stories so I could hear them resonating not only in my own head.
Now tell me 5 interesting things about you!

My charcoal drawing, inspired by a small animal bone

Thursday, January 25, 2018

Brave comes in all shapes and sizes

A short and sweet review for the audiobook edition of my WWII Spy Thriller, Marriage before Death:

Susan Patterson

Listener Since 2015
126
HELPFUL VOTES
  • 313 reviews
  • 313 ratings
  • 318 titles in library
  • 12 purchased in 2018
FOLLOWING
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FOLLOWERS
4

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

I wish I could sweep her off her feet



Now, all these years later, I wonder: does Natasha dream about operating in the shadows, about turning into a spy? When she cries in her sleep, is she still there, in a hideout or on some route of escape? Having lived through perils no one else can imagine, does she still sense the excitement, a heightened vibration of life going through her veins? 
Is there enough time for me to listen to her story, to commit it to paper—even as she is losing the words?
I wish I could sweep her off her feet, the way I did in our youth, and kiss her till she is weak at the knees—but who knows how she will react. At this point I have to be more careful with her.
“I hope you know,” I say, at last answering her question and hoping she can, somehow, hear me on the other side of the glass door. “These were still the good times.”
I slide it open. Her hands fly faster and faster over the keys, to the point of becoming a blur, and her music is no longer the stuff of fairytales. It is becoming wilder, and I sense what it is she brings out of her piano, out of the belly of the beast. 
It is darkness, downright darkness that can not be mistaken. What can it be called, but despair?



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A wonderful collection of art

A short and sweet review for my art book, Inspired by Art: The Last Concubine:

on January 23, 2018
Uvi Poznansky is an accomplished author, poet and artist, and any ink that flows from her pen is highly recommended reading. This work, Inspired by Art: The Last Concubine (The David Chronicles Book 9), is no exception.

This is a wonderful collection of art compiled by Uvi Poznansky that artists have given us throughout the centuries. It is a beautifully designed book that will provide a lot of visual pleasure. I’m a big fan of Uvi Poznansky so it’s five stars from me again.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Romance in WWII London

Just discovered this great review for the audiobook edition of my love story set in WWII London, Dancing with Air:

Aurora Dawn

Listener Since 2013
.







"Romance in WWII London"
Overall
Performance
Story
A man whose beloved wife is suffering from dementia remembers their youth together in WWII London. A sweet, beautiful and ultimately sad story about love and war. I loved the always pragmatic Lenny and the quirky,artsy Natasha, the gentle love that developed between them and the sense of innocence in the midst of one of the most brutal and horrible moments of the recent past.
I enjoyed the narrator's style, even his sometimes off-key singing of the songs that coloured life in the 1940s and even the slightly odd voicing of Natasha
A wonderful story, well worth reading .. over and over.