Friday, March 2, 2018

It’s too late for us, don’t you agree?

Scores of men lined up. Each one in turn presented his printed Programme to her, asking for an autograph.
One said, “Natasha Horowitz, I just love your music.”
“I’ll never forget your name, as long as I live,” said another.
And another one said, “You remind me of my girl, back home.”
Joining the line I had no idea, at first, if she caught sight of me. Natasha gave a nod here, a word there to her fans, asked each one of them for his name, scribbled a short greeting, and signed it for him. Then, as I drew nearer, she took a step back and exchanged a quick look with Mrs. Babcock. 
With a flash in her eyes Natasha asked, under her breath, “Did you tell him where to find me?”
“Who, me?” said the woman.
Turning away from her she said, this time out loud, “I suppose the whereabouts of a performer are no secret, so what took you so long?” 
Astonished at her remark I looked at those who stood ahead of me and those who stood behind. Then I asked, “Who, me?” 
“No, not you,” said one. “Me! Me! How about me?”
And another one asked, “Who, him?”
And a third one chimed in, “That guy, you mean?”
To which Natasha said, “I do.”
And to me she said, “It’s too late for us, Lenny, don’t you agree?”
And I asked, as if I had no idea why she would resist me, “Late for what?”
“For love to start all over again.”
“You’re wrong, Natashinka.”
“Am I?”
“I’m here just in time, to ask you one thing.”
“Which is what?” 
I handed her the Programme, which I had just snatched from the next person in line, and said, “Will you sign your name for me?”
She asked, “What name shall I sign?”
“Natasha,” I said, “Kaminsky.”
“You know that’s not my name.”
“Not yet. But soon, it will be.”
I knelt before her, opening my arms, my heart. 
“Please, do it, Natasha,” I said. “It’ll be a great honor for me.”
Then I dug the gold locket out of my pocket, and offered it to her. She opened it, uttering a cry of amazement.
“Oh! It’s you, it’s me,” she breathed. “And look, there’s no tear.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Babcock. “D’you like him?”
And Natasha said, in a soft tone, “I do.” 
And I said, in a tone that was even softer, “I love you, sweetheart, and I always will.”
In a heartbeat she bent over, heat surging between us, and before I could utter another word, kissed me long and full on my lips. 

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

An emotional, touching and bittersweet romance

Just found this review of my WWII love story, The Music of Us:

on March 1, 2018
Award-winning author, poet and artist Uvi Poznansky weaves an outstanding and noteworthy World War II love story with entrancing twists and turns that will easily captivate the reader’s attention from the beginning. The author paints an emotional, touching and bittersweet romance story in a very vivid and convincing way. In addition, the characters are drawn with great credibility and integrity.

The story had every element a good story should have. An exciting plot, attention to detail, but best of all fleshed out, well-written and well-rounded character development. There’s an abundance of well-illustrated scenes that make you feel like you are right there in the story, and that’s something I really look for in a good book.

It’s a captivating and commendable read that had me engrossed from the beginning. The story flowed from scene to scene with ease, and the author shows extraordinary skill when it comes to storytelling. There are plenty of attention-grabbing moments in this page turner that will take the reader on a truly mesmerizing journey!

I’m a big fan of Uvi so any ink that flows from her pen comes highly recommended from me. This work, The Music of Us, is of course, no exception. It’s one of those books that come along occasionally that makes you want to read it non-stop until you get to the end. I’m giving nothing further away here. And this, I hope, will only add to the mystery and enjoyment for the reader. A well-deserved 5 stars and a highly recommended read.

Tuesday, February 27, 2018

I stand here before you, not knowing my name

I stand here before you, not knowing my name.
The light in this place is so blinding, so intense, that as far back as I can remember, it has forced me to close my eyes. Now this is about to change. Coming out of a brilliant haze, here is her footfall. Here she is: my Creator. I am clay in her hands. Let her do with me as she pleases; for what am I to do?
Now listen, listen to that sound: the air is vibrating around her. I can feel her breast, it is heaving. I can hear her breathing in, breathing out... Yes, she is coming closer. Is she about to blow life into me? My skin starts shivering. Here, now, is her touch— 
She puts a mark on me, pressing the sharp end of a chisel until it stings, it pierces me right here, under my eyelid. I shriek! I cry—but somehow no one can hear me. If I were not reduced to tears, I would pay more attention to this nagging sense, the sense of astonishment in me. Why, why can’t I be heard? Have I lost the ability to make a sound? Then I wonder, did I ever have it? And even in this crinkling, crushing silence, can’t she sense my pain? 
It is not until later, when she pulls out the blade, that I become afflicted—for the first time in my life—with vision. To you, vision  may be a gift, but I think it a burden. Emerging from the glow that has so far pervaded my existence, I open my eyes.
The haze is gone. Alas, there is not much to see here around me. This is a dim place. A place of doubt. Clutter. Confusion. From this point on, I start sensing shadows. I find myself forced to make some sense of them. 
So first, I spot her, the Creator. She is twice as tall as I am. With a heavy step, she paces around the space, coming in and out of my field of vision. Then, looking down, I spot that other presence, which in my blindness I could only guess. Him.
I used to imagine he was flat, a slab of clay. But now, to my surprise, he is no longer that. He, too, has risen from his slumber, yet he is not fully alive. Like me, he is immobile. At first glance he is blurry, gradually turning sharper and gaining more and more definition.  
His hand is extended, as if to reach, to touch me. This, I figure, is a gesture of hope; which, out of spite, I may as well turn down. Being so close to him brings me too close to blushing, but I will never allow him to put a hand on me, and neither will she. 
With a great deal of precision, the Creator coils a metal wire around the palm of his hand, loops it around and ties it to my fingers, fixing a small distance between us: clay, separation, clay. That way we are close—but not quite intimate. 
From time to time, a slight vibration is transmitted from him. It comes through the coils, in a quiver that pierces me all the way through, right into the deepest parts of my flesh. The sound is, for lack of a better word, metallic. It sings about our pain, about the tension between us. I listen, and so does he. Weakness runs through our limbs, it twists in secret places inside us. He does his best to hold still, bravely maintaining his pose. And so do I. 

A Figure of Clay in Twisted

This story is told from the point of view of a figure of clay. The inspiration came to me when I was sculpting this piece, and imagining her voice :

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"The ideas seem from a different realm of non-reality, but they are so immaculately constructed that each work becomes a little treasure to visit repeatedly." 
- Grady Harp, Hall of Fame Reviewer

Monday, February 26, 2018

These masterpieces added greatly to my enjoyment

Short and sweet review for my art book, Inspired by Art: Rise to Power:

on February 24, 2018
These masterpieces, included in "Inspired by Art: Rise to Power" (many of which I had never seen before) added greatly to my enjoyment of the series. The David Chronicles,Uvi Poznansky, is a truly breathtaking epic. This art, and as the author notes, "arranged by the story moment-by-momecnt, blow-by-blow, as imagined by various artists," captures and enhances the saga. Wonderful.

Saturday, February 24, 2018

How can a girl like me ever claim to be innocent?

All I want to be is alone. Why do I feel guilty when I haven’t done nothing wrong. 
Then I raise the corner of the mattress, which is where I’ve stashed away that old picture, the one that was glued in the middle of the second page of the album. The sight of it calms me down, at first. 
I pick it up and study every detail—like I’ve done so many times before—because like, the image may go on fading, until in the end, nothing’s gonna be left. I’m so charmed by it. This moment delights me as if I had lived it, even though—or maybe because—it’s stolen.
In it, a baby is about to be lifted from a cradle by his mama. His face, it’s awful close to the surface—but barely visible. You can only guess it, ‘cause the paper is a bit damaged, and most of the lines is like, out of focus—except for a dark contour, which is still intact, marking the shadow of his long, curved lashes. 
I put a hand to my belly, and touch my lips to the image, right there, over that shadow. I wonder if this is how my baby’s gonna look, and marvel at the thought of how his eyes would change when he wakes, or falls asleep, or rolls them, like, in the sphere of his dreams, and then later, when he grows up to become a man, ‘cause it’s so easy to fill in the details on a page that’s like, almost blank. 
On the other side, right there behind the cradle, the mother—whose lips, and cheeks, and freckled nose, they’re all just like mine—she’s leaning over him, with open arms. 
Her face is serious, without the slightest smile. She’s looking directly at the camera, at the one taking the picture, whom I’ve previously imagined to be Lenny—but today, I find a change in her. This time, it’s me she is facing. 
The way she looks at me is severe, critical, even disapproving. I bet it’s because the laugh lines have dimmed with time. But then, her eyes! Oh God, they’re so clear, so full of pure, glorious light; which, for a moment, brings me close to despair. I’m in awe. Look, I have goosebumps! The two of us look the same, just like sisters—but oh, how I wish I could be more like her!
Me, I don’t have nothing more I want to say in my defense—except to ask you again: put yourself in my place. How can a girl like me ever claim to be innocent?

Anita in My Own Voice

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Volume I & II, woven together: Apart from Love
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"After having read and reviewed several fictional novels by Author Uvi Poznansky, I continue to be a huge fan of her writing style. She has the mesmerizing and enchanting effect of drawing her readers into the heart and soul of her characters." 
Dolores Ayotte, Author

Saturday, February 17, 2018

I found her writing to be irresistible

A short and sweet review for my WWII spy thriller, The Marriage of Us.

on February 17, 2018
Impressed. This story, “Marriage before Death: WWII Spy Thriller (Still Life with Memories Book 5)” by Uvi Poznansky , is both beautifully told and gritty. I found her writing to be irresistible in that the historical drama is fascinating and yet flows in a stylized blend of literary prose and riveting passages. Great read. Highly recommended. Five stars.

She was separated from the rest of us by the innocence in her eyes

The old woman opened her mouth to answer, but before she could utter another word, three things happened all at once: her eyes fell upon me, the girl clapped a hand over her heart, and the master of ceremonies could be heard behind them, stepping out to the center of the stage. 
He bowed to the audience and cheerfully announced, “And now we take great pleasure to present the youngest star of our program, miss Natasha Horowitz!”
“Go, go, you go, girl,” said her mama. 
But to herself she mumbled, “Lordy Lord. Let’s hope these GIs have some taste for something classical.”
She reached over her daughter’s forehead to adjust the feather in the little draped turban, which was whimsically designed by knotting together a couple of scarves. On other women, especially of the working class, such a hat would seem practical, as it was easy to create at home and kept the hair in place. On Natasha it added glamor.  Impatient with all that fiddling over a feather, she removed it. 
Out of the hat cascaded the most gorgeous, shoulder-length red hair, with a curl at the end of it, the tips of which were wet from the rain. The girl shook her head so as to let the drops fly out, slipped out of her coat and stepped out into the spotlight, without her notes.
Meanwhile, her mama turned upon me. She set her fisted hands firmly on her hips and took a big gulp of air, letting her breath expand inside her as if she were a balloon. Then she looked up at me trying to stare me down, as if I were the enemy.
“Who’re you?” she asked, and without waiting for a reply she grumbled, “Go away! Go back!”
Up to that moment I had considered myself a fairly disciplined soldier, but the way she glared at me made me feel quite naughty, which on the flip side, compelled me to live up to a different reputation. 
So feeling an urge, a sudden, irresistible urge not only to make an impression on the daughter but also to spite the mom, I slipped forward through the opening, and came onstage striding ahead of Natasha. Facing the audience I blew my cheeks, rather theatrically, into an imaginary bugle, which gained me a round of applause, as everyone thought my act must have been part of the show. 
Then, with great flamboyance, I took the non-existent brass instrument out of my lips and clutched it to my heart, before making a spectacular leap offstage. While in flight, I totally forgot the injury I had suffered to my shoulder, only to be reminded of it, with a sharp shot of pain, upon landing. Stumbling onto someone’s lap I tumbled further down onto the floor, from where I raised up my eyes to watch Natasha. 
She came to stand at the edge of the stage, with a light from above focused upon her, which allowed me to see her clearly for the first time. 
Her light-pink dress hung just below the knees. It hugged her figure, which was slim and straight like a pencil, with barely any curves. Under the squared shoulders, which were then in fashion, her scrawny arms hung by her sides as if she didn’t know what to do with them, except for the long, delicate fingers that of their own, played in the air. 
And oh, her face! Framed by the lovely chestnut curls, it was pale, and so were the freckles on her nose. This kid could be no older than fifteen. She was separated from the rest of us not only by the height of the stage and the radiance of the spotlight but also by the innocence in her eyes. 

Lenny in The Music of Us 
[narrated by Don Warrick]

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"The atmosphere of the 1940s is beautifully portrayed, and on a secondary level only to the (mostly) unrequited love story, it was my next treasured experience while reading this book. I loved the sounds and sights of the era, the music, the cars, and the lifestyles so well depicted. It was a fascinating dip into the life of those dynamic times." 
Aaron Paul Lazar, Author