Friday, October 31, 2014

And you, sir, are not such a hotshot!

Am I dreaming? I stare at it in great awe.
“Ah!” says Satan, noting my expression with great interest. “You are a curious creature, woman.”
“No disrespect intended, sir,” I say, “but don’t play with me. If you know my name—which I am sure you do—you would do well to use it when you talk to me.”
“Oh, I would,” he teases me, “if you were to offer me at least a token of gratitude, if you know what I mean.”
I do. And it’s not that I am not tempted... Satan is a handsome fellow, even with fine-haired goat beard on his chin, which is something I could persuade him to shave off, in time...
“Here we are,” he presses on. “All alone, apparently, in a deserted library... Now, how badly do you want your name back, woman?”
In place of an answer, I gulp.
And he says, “I am given to caprice, you know. So I may, perhaps, be persuaded to give your name back to you...”
His words go roundabout, but his gaze is quite direct. Which leaves me dumbfounded; but only for a second. After all, even as a corpse I cannot risk a scandal—and in my own village, or the copy of it, of all places! The place seems vacant at the moment—but then, who knows? 
They say, walls have ears... And gossip, my God, it would be devastating. For sure, it would kill my husband. His heart has been so weak lately. Betrayal—even a whisper of it—would crush him. It would add to the weight of his mounting woes. I still care for Job, even if I am here, trapped in this hellish replica of my birthplace, and he—somewhere up there, in the real thing.
In the silence that has fallen upon the room Satan leafs casually through the pages of the book. Then he raises the magnifying glass to his eye, and glares at me.
“I see,” he says. “Didn’t think so. Just testing; forget it.”
“I will.”
“You are not all that sexy, anyway.”
“And you, sir, are not such a hotshot.”

My bronze sculpture, From Dust

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Thursday, October 30, 2014

Come join David and Bathsheba in the royal gardens!

Hope you had a great Halloween, everyone! Like to dress up in costumes, or to strike a funny pose? You've come to the right place! 

Here is Bathsheba Bathing, a lovely oil painting painting by Paolo Veronese, showing king David approaching her with a proposition in mind... I invite you to step into the scene, and help the action along! Here's how:
  1. First, join my Celebrate event (if you haven't already); 
  2. Then, give me an image of yourself--perhaps with your Halloween costume?--by sending me a PM (private message on Facebook) and using Add Photo in it.
Then I will add your image into this scene, so we can all party together in the royal garden with David and Bathsheba! There will be enough space for all of us, as the scene will expand as the party grows in size!

Join David, Bathsheba, Sherri Christian, Jane Carroll, Dellani OakesBrian Benson and yours truly
in the upcoming Celebrate  party!

Surprises and prizes, don't miss the fun!

Come celebrate with me! My book, A Peek at Bathsheba, is about to appear in an amazing audio edition, just in time for the holidays. I invite you to listen to excerpts, narrated by the gifted actor, musician and singer Justin Harmer. There will be surprises and prizes, don't miss the fun!

Click the image and click Join

Monday, October 27, 2014

An intriguing novel...Buy it, Read it, LOVE it!

New review for the audiobook edition of Apart From Love:
  • Racquel10-27-14
"An intriguing novel...Buy it, Read it, LOVE it!"
Any additional comments?
Uvi Poznansky explores the intricate and complex world of love in ‘Apart From Love’. Very well written and engaging throughout, this novel does, as so many have indicated, reveal the multiple truths behind a dysfunctional family. This author has a real gift for getting right inside her characters' heads. I found her words possessed a special kind of tenderness. Uvi's style is like beautiful poetry. I have never read a book like this. It really stayed interesting till the very last page. The author has great talent and a true master of her craft. Highly recommend the audio

Late Lover

A diamond short, a decade late
I come to stand outside your gate
Unlock and open, let me in
Forgive me, love; what is my sin?
I fled from you across the land
But now I ask you for your hand
A decade late, a diamond short
I can't imagine why you snort
My limbs are frail, my breath is cold
I must admit I may look old
I fall, I kneel, why
I implore

You are the woman I adore
I feel so weak, I feel so brittle
Don't touch! I may be impotent a little
You loved me onceor so I thought
Stop! Take your fingers off my throat

I painted Late Lover from the point of view of the girl he had left behind. She and you, the observer, are one. He is yearning to come back home. A blue cape is flung around his shoulders, which allows the eye to stay with him, rather than drift off to the background, seen in the spaces between his flimsy ribs. More importantly, you can see the withered flowers he lays at your feet, and the ring being cast off your finger, straight onto his head. The words 'A diamond short, a decade late' are carved into the door frame, perhaps with your fingernails, scratching letter after letter over the long-drawn-out years of waiting for him... 

Having painted him all day, the voice of Late Lover came to me at night. The next morning I wrote his poem down in a single breath, and never made any corrections, never replaced a word or adjusted the rhythm--because it came to me completely ready.

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"The book overflows with some of the most eloquent poetic moments in print"

Sunday, October 26, 2014

At the sound of this word, I—I dropped to my knees

So, he drinks; after which I ask, with caution, “So—what did the doctor tell you?”
He’s raising his eyes again, but the right words can’t be found nowhere close to him—not on the ceiling, or on the wall, or the floor, in this corner, or that. So instead, Lenny shuts his eyes and, like, stumbles into saying, “The doctor, he said: Mr. Kaminsky, the tests came back.”
“At this point,” he recalls, “I took a hard swallow. The doctor paused briefly—perhaps taking another look at the test results—and then went on to say, I have some difficult news for you. Your wife, I believe, has a form of Alzheimer's.”
I take the briefcase away from him, ‘cause it’s just about to fall, anyway. 
And so Lenny can’t brace himself no more, ‘cause at this point, he don’t have nothing to hold on to, and nowhere to hide. Instead he just sits there, with the empty glass, saying, “Alzheimer's,” and then again, in a voice that is nearly gagged, “Alzheimer's.” 
And after a long pause he adds, “At the sound of this word, Natasha was confused and I—I dropped to my knees. I remember, she could not get it, could not understand what was going on and told the doctor, Wait, hold on, I cannot talk to you now. Call back later, something is wrong here. No, not with me—with my husband.” 
Lenny takes off his glasses and like, wipes something from the corner of his eye, and my heart goes out to him. And then, then the strangest thing starts happening to me. For the first time in ten years I feel not only for him—but for her, too. 

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“The attention to detail showcases the smooth pen of the author”

Saturday, October 25, 2014

They were painted quite liberally with some blood-red smear

All was quiet now, deadly quiet. You had to put your ear close to me to hear the one thing, the only thing that screwed up this silence: the crinkly sound of my hair and nails, continuing to grow, somehow. Even the crows had stopped echoing their calls between one and another. And yet, I was not alone. I could sense another presence. 
When at last I mustered the will to blow the gravel off my eyelids and force them open, the first thing I saw was sandals. Diamond-studded sandals, no less. 
Never before had I seen such an elegant design in our village—not even at my own wedding some years back, when Job could still afford spoiling me. At the time he had been considered a good catch. Rich beyond belief, and as healthy as an ox, he had not been known for being blameless or righteous until much later. Some wicked fun we had! And to please me, he would pour coins into my purse—what a delightful jingle!—so I might buy the most exotic fabrics for my dresses, and the most expensive footwear, imported by Babylonian merchants traveling through the Kingdom of Edom on their way to Egypt. 
How I had been pining lately for his attention, or—failing that—for the luxury of going on a shopping spree! It would have been a pleasant distraction from all my suffering. 
If only I could go, one last time, and buy some brand-new designer clothes, or better yet, shoes...
But now, these sandals—right there at my eye level—were sleek, but also quite strange. Their tar-black, impossibly high heels were cutting with a twist into the freshly dug earth; which at once, seems to scare away a host of worms. 
Naturally, I tried to squirm away—but could not move a muscle.
And look: inside these two contraptions were the ugliest feet I had ever seen. Toes crooked, nails spiked, with an irregular, cracked outer edge—yet they were painted quite liberally with some blood-red smear. 
Sigh. I closed my eyes. Was this a joke, or a bad dream? With such a sloppy manicure, this bitch—whoever she was—must have been even more impatient than I ever was. 
I wished that—for a spell—I could take a peek, just long enough to compare our feet. Mine, you see, are so much prettier! And what’s more, they had been cleaned the night before by the village women, washed once with water from the local well, and a second time with tears. 
But now, even without casting a look I could tell, by the chill on my skin, that under this shroud my feet were utterly bare. No  boots, no shoes, no sandals. 
Which made me envy her. 
Through the skin of my closed eyelids I could sense a sudden change. Blocking the sun, her shadow came crawling upon me, until suddenly it stopped. Which was when—with no warning, and no respect for the departed, either—she gripped my arm, rolled me aside and to my surprise, hopped in

My oil painting, Untitled, was created by combining two of my charcoal sketches, in a way that it's hard to resolve if the female figure is dreaming up the sea creature or else, if he is dreaming her up...


★ Love Horror? Treat yourself to a thrill 


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"It is virtually impossible to resist being mesmerized"

Friday, October 24, 2014

Trick or Treat

Gnarled branches here entwine
Ghosts send shivers down your spine
If you trick or tweet tonight
I will give you such a fright

I'll stay twisted until dawn
Until then, leave the lights on
I'll scare you with a puff of heat
Apart From Love, it is my treat

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Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness

And how could I be so dumb as to miss the early, telltale signs, back then when she started forgetting things? 
Simple things, such as the names of her students, and how to teach music, or play Beethoven's fifth. And later, how to put words on paper, and mail me a letter, and why not call me, why not tell me the truth; and how to talk to him, to my father; and most of all, how to forgive betrayal.  
So for me, home is where her illness has been buried, up to now, under a thin, undisturbed layer of memories. 
Or should I call them lies. 
I think that in the future, I should refrain from talking to my father, and especially, from asking him any more questions about her. Let him not upset that image, which I have been striving so hard to construct, the image of mom, framed by their life together, because if this image collapses, so will I. 
Still, I am unsure if her forgetfulness should be called an illness. Those doctors, they could have made a mistake. Two years in medical school taught me one thing, which is how terribly easy it can be to make an incorrect diagnosis. I recall a study of brain autopsies, in which roughly half of those diagnosed with Alzheimer's before death did not, in fact, show any evidence, I mean, evidence of the right degree of brain lesions to support the diagnosis. 
If there is one illness which—in this case—seems too far-fetched, it would be Alzheimer's. My mother is now in her early fifties: much too young, I think, for anything like that.
Yesterday, arriving at LAX, I hoped this could be a short visit, short enough just to take my father out of the hospital and make sure he is all right. I planned to spend no more than a week—but now, now that I know more about mom, and about where she is, I may have to stay longer and think about my next steps.

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“The attention to detail showcases the smooth pen of the author”

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Upon that night when ghosts arise

Upon that night when ghosts arise
To shriek in gusts of wind
They’ll warn you of your demise
Deep under gravestones pinned

Pretend you never existed
On the ground, above
Pretend you are not twisted
And not Apart From Love

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Friday, October 17, 2014

I love reading Apart from love, its an awesome read

Just discovered this short and sweet review on Goodreads, written by Patrick Loughrey of Glasgow, The United Kingdom. This is what he says of Apart From Love

's review
Oct 09, 14

bookshelves: apart-from-love 

I love reading Apart from love, its an awesome read and Uvi Poznansky is an awesome author. She has written her book perfectly and I look forward to reading more of her books in the future. :-) I recommend Apart from love as a must buy and a must read, the book is awesome. my rating 10 out of 10 :-)Patrick loughrey

Love is Part of It

I am thrilled to find this review, written by the author of NEXT TIME LUCKY: Lessons of a MatchmakerSiggy Buckley. Siggy recently appeared on NPR with Melissa Ross' First Coast Connect on Home Swapping and her book on dating. This is what she wrote for my novel, Apart From Love:

4.0 out of 5 stars Love is Part of It.October 17, 2014
Verified Purchase(What's this?)
This review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition)
Another great work by multi-artist (or as the French say "artiste complet"): U. Poznanzky who is a wonderful painter, sculptor, poet and in general master of words and intriguing plots. This novel weaves three individual story lines into one like a tapestry that takes shape in front of your eyes, adding color and depth with each new chapter.
It took me a while to get warmed up to the three main characters: the philandering father, Lenny, who divorced his wife Natasha who mysteriously left the scene. Anita, his new unlikely wife-- except for her physical likeness to Natasha and Lenny's, Ben who appears on the scene again after 10 years of absence. Anita is pregnant when the story starts. The secret around Natasha is soon revealed to Ben, to Anita, surprisingly, only later.
Natasha, a former concert pianist suffers from early dementia and is in a home, yet Lenny still loves and cares for her. Ben can't believe the shell of his mother that remains. The reader witnesses the terrible effects this disease has on people, both the patient as well as the family.
An illicit bond develops between Ben and Anita who are of the same age while Ben is alienated from his father. This family set-up- the three live in the same apartment- will not end happily of course.
While I found the story fascinating, the characters well developed and intriguing, I found the middle part a bit too long winded. Leaving out some of the flashbacks would have remedied that impression. The end left me somewhat unsatisfied. Of course, there is not always a happy -end in real life either. Overall, I recommend Apart from Love as a really good novel.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Words Left Behind

I love the quote by poet Clarissa Simmens, who says, "I am so grateful that my poetry is able to be published and stored in the modern version of ... The Cemetery of Forgotten Books." She is the author of seveal books, and I am thrilled that this is what she said about my novel, Apart From Love, in her usual poetic style:

5.0 out of 5 stars Words Left Behind...October 6, 2014
This review is from: Apart From Love (Kindle Edition)
Uvi Poznansky’s books are always written on several levels. Apart From Love seems to contain so many mythological elements. There is the basic story of the love triangle of Ben, his father Lenny, and Anita (the young wife who is replacing Ben’s mother) that is reminiscent of Oedipus Rex: kill the father, marry the stepmother, who happens to look like the real mother when young. There are also the three aunts—the Fates—snipping and knitting, moving amongst the lives of the main characters. There is another level with mirror imagery and twinning: Anita and Ben’s mother Natasha; Anita and Lenny’s soon-to-be born son with Lenny and Natasha’s son Ben; and Ben as competitor with Lenny, the father he resembles. Still another level examines the philosophical question of authors writing about people they know. As Anita says, “The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more,” recognizing that words and lives are up for grabs to any author. The best part of a Poznansky book? The poetic prose, her seductive words, that make each book well worth reading.