Uvi Poznansky

At the core, what does home mean to you? When you close your eyes, what image comes to mind? And at what point in your life does it change, only to be discovered from a new angle?

For me, it happened when my father passed away. I went back home for the traditional Shiva-a, the seven days of mourning. Perhaps the grief did something to change the way I viewed things, or else it was sitting in that space–my childhood home–in a spot I rarely sat before, discovering it from a new angle, observing how light penetrated the far reaches of this place, how the furniture signified relationships in the family. I drew what I saw on a napkin; wiped my tears with it, and later discarded it. But the vision I saw was so vivid, that I painted it in oil upon my return to the states, and it became the cover of my book, Home, in tribute of my father.

The first three poems in my book paint what I saw, in words. Let me share them with you:


Sucked in by a force, I’m flying through a tunnel
The tunnel of memory that leads me back home
The past blurs my present, so my vision is double
The walls and the ceiling curve into a dome

From here I can see my home, tilting
And falling from place, all the lamps are aflame
My father’s empty chair is slowly ascending
Tipped by the light, outlining its frame

This is the Place

This is the place where he put pen to paper…
But clung to the wall, the shelves are now bare
All that remains of his words is but vapor
All you can spot is but a dent in his chair

He used to sit here, here he would stare
Years come, years go, an old clock keeping score,
He would scribble his notes, crumple them in despair
Waiting for his savior—but locking that door

That door sealed him off, away from all danger
Except from the depth of the danger within
No one could intrude here, except for the stranger
Who would carry him off to where his end would begin—

The poet, who’d mourned the loss of his mother
Would then, somehow, be reduced to a child
He would crouch at the threshold, and call, call, call, call her
Knock, knock, knock at the door; no more held back, but wild

This is the place where he put pen to paper
Till the door opened, creaking on a hinge…
Locked in embrace, perhaps at last he can feel her
No need to cry now, can’t feel that twinge


The lamp swings like a pendulum,
pictures sway on their nails
Then slip down the walls, leaving scratched trails
Amidst the quake, the grief, the confusion and scare
Slowly ascending is my father’s armchair

And beyond all these outlines of what I see there
Beyond the sofa, the knickknacks, the old furniture
Light pours in, and it paints something new
It reveals, it unveils at this moment a clue

The clue to a presence only he could once see
A presence he longed for, because only she
Could call him back home, and envelop him so
Touching-not-touching, her hands all aglow

These pages, upon which he’ll never scribble a line
Are floating out of shadows, into the shine
Only she can now read the blanks, she and no other
He’s ascending into the arms of his muse, his mother.

For more information about Uvi Poznansky and her work, visit her web site:

My author page on Amazon:


To see my sculptures, paintings and watercolors, and to read a sample of my poems and stories, here is my website:

To read my blog, which includes several of my radio interviews:

On a different note:
This is a magical moment for me, one I have been waiting for! The audiobook edition of my novel Apart From Love is finally out! This in addition to its print and ebook editions. Please check out the voice sample for this highly praised 5-star novel, with 48 reviews. Apart From Love I am truly excited. This is the second of my books to come out in an audiobook edition. The first one was A Favorite Son. Home will soon go into production. Please stay tuned…

Apart From Love, the audiobook edition:



A Favorite Son, the audiobook edition: US & India




Home, the audiobook edition: coming soon!

Audio coveraudio cover (2)