I demand. I insist. However, my expectation is reasonable. The trillium shall bloom each spring and delight me with delicate, white trinities. They oblige, my devoted subjects.
I made Dad nervous as, I’m fairly certain, he smoked twice as much when I was around. He inhaled sharply, deeply, a generous contribution to his emphysema.
Even my wife once (charitably, only once) used the phrase, “walking on eggshells.” I’ll always harbor this even if she forgot expressing it. I’m sure, I hope, I must have relented.
Apparently, my expectations were far too high. I demanded. I insisted. I do recall my pleas, though not my intensity as such, as a nervous little boy, any child’s anxiety over uncertainty.
Now, at this age, all my sharp edges filed smooth, obviously, markedly wiser (one would expect), I’ve cultivated diplomacy, learned to compromise, entertained the value of silence.
And yet I remain lonely. Apparently, simply walking into a room, I continue to require far too much. I suppose I do expect some essential things to function still (without perfection).
I’d enjoy a few simple courtesies: please and thank you, how-do-you-do, pardon me. From old friends (and either of my sisters), a call, a letter, a lunch, just a bit of honesty will do. I vow to forgo the anticipation of integrity.
I expect (or rather hope, as anyone does) to be loved, at least valued. On occasion. As time permits. At your convenience.
Penance
Dolorosamente, I remain a penitent.
I crave absolution as I failed to reconcile an old sin,
deadly Superbia, its pages faded, brittle at the edges,
lost in a monastery crypt. The summer after dropping
out of art school, I sat on the sofa opposite Charlie,
the geology professor – the girl from painting class,
Mary Alice’s father, in their little suburban living room,
listening to their dear friend play an Impromptu,
a Franz Schubertiade. My only task was delight,
but I was a thoughtless young bumpkin, oblivious
to most etiquette, a yapping, blundering puppy,
blathering on, duro bruscamente, while her fingers
glided like water pouring over keys.
Through moderato, allegro vivace, andantino,
sharp scowls shut me up, a smack on my muzzle;
however, embarrassment didn’t take until years later.
There remain too many events for which I feel regret
(one or two may be labeled loathsome). For this particular
transgression, I thumbed my rosary with due obsession,
recited the Act of Contrition, elaborated in the confessional,
there’s no one left to recall or care a whit for insignificant
atonement (and who’d forgive me four decades ago).
Now, nearly every day, I listen attentively to Schubert,
this beauty my penance, my Dolcezza.
David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.
the area i live in ripped out much native growth and planted introduced plane trees / i’m told they grow fast and the summer green shades and some think they are pleasing to look at / towards winter their leaves fall as other non-native leaves do and the roads and paths are covered / ankle deep and all over the place and then the leaf-blowers begin with their madness / and horrible it is that buzzing and whirring as obsessed leaf-haters blow their machinery / into piles and lines making me wonder is it only me who hates that noise / i wish they’d forget the leaves that have dropped and let them sit or exit with wind / and it brings up the issue of wouldn’t it make more sense to have native trees on our roads instead / trees that stay with their leaves all year and are suited to the four season climate / giving homes to many indigenous creatures including an array of insects and birds / i don’t get the leaf-blowing of leaves or the addiction to non-native trees / although i’d say whatever the trees growing leaf-blowers would still be using their blowers / i’m convinced leaf-blowers love blowing the leaves to create that terrible sound / all i can say is i don’t understand leaf-blowers or the leaf-blowing they love //
Stephen House has won many awards and nominations as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s had 20 plays produced with many published by Australian Plays Transform. He’s received several international literature residencies from The Australia Council for the Arts, and an Asialink India literature residency. He’s had two chapbooks published by ICOE Press Australia: ‘real and unreal’ poetry and ‘The Ajoona Guest House’ monologue. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. Stephen had a play run in Spain for 4 years.
HER BARBWIRE LIPS: Why is my I not the same I as our I your I their I et ceteri? Let’s meet any whensday where my we invites our them to break bread with their them (us!) and Is together are. Iless weness incorporates theynessthyness till allness is. But beware: I begets they if we neglects me (ourusness minus myness), so any part of(or)part from Iness may well martyrize my we :HER WATEFALL EYES
HAIKU IN SONNET
Blots advertise coming austerity.
Cross farmers and their inner flatterers
spring back into kinetic energy.
Skies are, after all, false benefactors.
(Crows)
“Take careful stock of your remaining fruit,
dead orchards are abandoned and condemned.
Worms sap tunnels through sturdy apple faults.”
Home seems familiar. We don’t understand.
(to)
The ambitions stretched beyond my quarters,
nests of desires planted over mountains.
Young dreams imagined crisp, boundless borders.
Birds of hope winged themselves across oceans.
(call)
For all that wishful repast was ancient
food that I thought only mine and recent.
Blots cross spring skies: Crows
take dead worms home to the nests.
Young birds call for food.
GESTALT
to/get/her
my singularity
we reformed
to/get/her
A POEM INDEBTED TO A SERMON BY LUTHER
Banner and anthem. Flag and slogan.
Tattoos and a uniform.
Your circumcision and your tzitzit.
A tonsure and crucifix.
All the princes impose their standards
and propagate their watchwords
by which to their followers they’re known
and to which lord they belong.
FLIGHT OF FANTASY
The name’s Duane, a recovering romantic.
And this sonnet’s microcosmically me: intelligent
to an extent, yet unutterably inelegant.
The twisted yogapoetry falls far shy of the tantric.
But the doomed, pure gooneybird still tries liftoff,
flopping/jerking incongruous across your Canada Shield,
this tropical spirit beating its blunt clumsy appeal
against your ever-stubborn massif.
Frantic wings pump and flutter.
Their antics, doubtless, amuse: as awkward
as the balance between golden orator
and the motley’s drooling stutter.
The question, then: Can nature’s clownbird conquer the runway
An Analysis of Literary Elements in Aleksandr Faynberg’s Poetry
Uzbekistan State World language university
English language and literature 1st faculty
Shukurilloyeva Lazzatoy Shamshodovna
Phone number: +998507003757
Email: shukurillayevalazzatoy@gmail.com
Abstract: This article explores the literary elements and thematic concerns present in the poetry of Aleksandr Feinberg. Through an analysis of selected poems, the study examines Feinberg’s use of imagery, symbolism, and poetic devices, highlighting the influence of both Uzbek and Russian literary traditions on his work. The analysis considers how Feinberg’s poetry reflects his deep connection to Uzbekistan and its people, as well as his exploration of universal themes such as love, loss, and the passage of time. Furthermore, the article discusses the potential evolution of Feinberg’s poetic style and thematic focus throughout his career, comparing his early and late works.
Keywords: Alexander Arkadyevich Feinberg, Arkady Lvovich, Anastasia Alexandrovna, literary elements, thematic concerns, Alisher Navoi, Erkin Vakhidov, Sergei Yesenin, Usmon Nosir, translations, Poem, simile, nature, personification, metaphor/comparison, childhood.
Although Alexander Feinberg’s mother, Anastasia Alexandrovna, was born in Moscow, and his father, Arkady Lvovich, was from Gatchina near Peter, Feinberg considered Uzbekistan his homeland. He explained his parents’ relocation from Siberia to Tashkent by stating, “I assume they moved right here to provide beginning to me.” This conviction fueled his lifelong expression of gratitude and love for Uzbekistan in his writings. His poems and literary works are replete with descriptions of Uzbekistan’s stunning landscapes, its rich national traditions, refined culture, and the spirituality of its people. Alexander’s formative years coincided with World War II; being two years old in 1941, he was deeply affected by the war’s devastating events. This impact resonates in his poetry, where one can sense the pain and hear the lament of a man in works like “1941,” “Autumn 1942,” “Tashkent,” “1943,” and “Argun.”
Alexander Feinberg, born in Tashkent in 1939, deeply identified with Uzbekistan as his homeland, even though his parents came from Russia. His prose and poetry vividly depict Uzbekistan’s landscapes, traditions, culture, and the spirit of its people. He expressed immense gratitude and love for Uzbekistan, emphasizing that his family might not have survived without the kindness of Uzbeks. His work, including “My City – Tashkent,” showcases his profound connection to the region. He wasn’t impressed with the Europe and remembered Uzbekistans problems.
Feinberg’s early life was marked by World War II, which deeply impacted him. His poems like “1941” and “Tashkent” reflect the pain and suffering of that era. He studied journalism and was a member of the Union of Writers of Uzbekistan, publishing fifteen books of poetry. He also wrote scripts for several films, including one commemorating the tragic death of the Pakhtakor football team. In addition, Alexander Feinberg translated many poems and poems by the famous Alisher Navoi and many contemporary Uzbek poets.
Both critics and the public celebrated Feinberg’s contributions, which spanned two cultural regions. He played a key role in promoting Uzbek literature among Russian speakers through his translations. By translating influential Uzbek poets such as Alisher Navoi and Erkin Vahidov, he exposed Russian readers to the depth and beauty of Uzbek literary traditions. Meanwhile, his original poetry gained significant recognition and became an integral part of the Uzbek literary canon. Feinberg also expanded his artistic impact through his involvement in animated film and screenwriting.
Aleksandr Feinberg’s body of work showcases a progression in both style and thematic focus. Early poems may have demonstrated a keen interest in poetic form and personal reflection. Later poems, however, often incorporated philosophical musings and a stronger connection to the cultural landscape of Uzbekistan, where he lived and worked.
It’s certainly no exaggeration to say that when remembering Aleksandr Faynberg, it’s impossible not to recall his poems infused with images of nature and the homeland, as well as his plays that expressed life’s truths. The poet’s creative legacy includes 15 poetry collections, numerous screenplays, and translations. As mentioned above, the poet, enamored with nature, wrote poems inspired by every small miracle of nature. Living in harmony with life, the poet, who could see beauty in every small detail, captivated his readers with this very quality. Speaking of small details, his poem “Page” is a clear proof of our words:
The sky protects the stars,
The deep sea protects the pearls.
A torn page from my notebook,
Protect the poems I have written.
As we dwell on the linguistic analysis of this quatrain, we witness the art of personification in the first stanza, that is, reminding that the sky protects the stars, and the deep sea protects the precious pearls in its depths, he looks at the page torn from his notebook, on which his poems are written, and asks it to protect his creative product. Here we can see not only the art of personification but also the art of comparison that comes in a hidden way. As we continue to analyze the creator’s poems, his next quatrain:
Poetry is not just to read, to understand,
Poetry is a sound resounding in the heart:
Like saving a path in the taiga,
Like reeds swaying in the lakes.
When discussing Feinberg’s poetry, it is emphasized that simply reading and understanding it is not enough; rather, the poem is essentially a voice, a sound that resonates from the heart. In the last two lines, comparison, i.e., the art of simile, is created with the help of the suffix “-dek” (meaning “like”). In the poem’s subsequent, final quatrain, we can also find the poetic arts from the previous stanzas.
Every line is a life, every poem is a heart,
A kinship with forests, birds, and clouds.
A torn page from my notebook,
Cherishing my poems meticulously.
We wouldn’t be wrong to say that Feinberg’s creation of a beautiful poem from such simple, small things is due to his innate talent. Feinberg, like Russian poet Sergei Yesenin and Uzbek poet Usmon Nosir, is an international poet who embodies the ability to express a world of meaning with concise words. Moreover, the beautiful features of nature in his poem “Wind” also do not leave us indifferent.
Night. I’ll go out on the balcony for a moment.
Spring. The wind rustles.
It’s not my gray hair, not my face that the wind strikes,
But my heart, my heart is struck by the wind.
Youth and joy-happiness, with suffering-grief,
It blows unrestrained in the seas and gardens.
The wind never ages at all,
The wind is always young, the wind is forever young.
Feinberg is the owner of innate talent. From the first lines of the poem, we can realize that this work is a product of the creator’s old age: “It’s not my gray hair, not my face.” While gray hair alludes to old age, it also symbolizes that the lyrical hero has traveled a long distance, experienced many difficulties in life, and for this reason, the wind strikes precisely the hero’s heart. In the next stanza of this poem, a contrast arises, and also, one cannot fail to notice the skillful use of epithets from the beginning to the end of the poem.
Because Alexander Feinberg is an international poet, he tried to depict the customs, values, and character unique to both nations in his work. As mentioned above, he wielded his pen in harmony with the times. One of his great achievements is that he also ventured into the field of translation. His translations are an inseparable part of the poet’s legacy.
Hope flickers from the depths of centuries,
Like a wound aching in the heart—
Somewhere there exists a shore of happiness,
Where eternal love and peace reside.
The delicate art of comparison is subtly expressed through the flickering of hope. Like a craftsman stringing pearls, the poet carefully selects and arranges words in a way that captivates every reader of his poetry. Love, the celebration of youth, and depictions of life form the central themes of his verses.
When considering the linguistic aspects of the poet’s work, it’s clear that he effectively utilized literary devices such as contrast (opposition), comparison (simile), personification, and epithets. This is evident in almost all of his creative pieces. Living in harmony with his era, the poet vividly captured the emotions and feelings of the people of that time.
In his view, the trials and tribulations of the creative arena, though challenging, demanded perseverance as the most honorable duty for survival. The poet’s dreams have come to fruition. Today, his name and works are eagerly sought after and cherished by readers. Having captured the hearts of people of all ages, Aleksandr Feinberg’s life and work remain timeless. The inestimable value of the poet’s lyricism lies in its embellishment with the beautiful gems of poetry.
REFERENCES
1. Alexander Fainberg ―An Attempt to Autobiography
2. Mikhail Knizhnik ―Living Poet‖ Published in The Jerusalem Journal. Number 31, 2009
3. Elena Atlanova:Alexander ― Feinberg’s Cage of Freedom
4. Alexander Fitz ―About the poet Feinberg‖ Published in Khreshchatyk magazine number 4, 2005
5. “Literature and Art of Uzbekistan” newspaper, Number 24, 2009
6. Musurmonov R. “The Alley of Writers – the Garden of Enlightenment”. –T .: Uzbek literature and art, June 19, 2020.
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Wilderness House Literary Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Litterateur Redefining World anthologies out of India, Poets Reading the News, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.–
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
At the epicenter of this moment, humanity is manifesting itself in its most glorious form, but not in the light of a blazing mind or in the purity of a transcendent spirit. Rather, it is in the shadow of a profound crisis that is shaking the foundations of its existence. We might think that all this intellectual noise ravaging the earth is merely a passing phenomenon, but what is happening is far more dangerous. We live in a cosmic epic, where the earth is burning within itself, the heavens are trembling, and everything, even silence, is witness to the madness of existence.
We live in a time when grand ideologies are disintegrating, and the illusions we have planted in minds over the centuries are shattered. We see every idea in conflict with the next in a vicious circle of confusion. Those human desires that once revolved around sublime human values are now nothing but lies propagated by power and greed. What have we done with the mind? Is it still the light that illuminated the paths of philosophers, or have we turned it into a mirage pursued by those racing toward the unknown? Do minds now mean anything, or have they been transformed into nothing more than gigantic machines that produce meaningless noise, revolving in closed circles without meaning? The End
We are drowning in a kingdom of intellectual coma, where wars are accelerating across the geography of consciousness, while souls are being sold in opportunistic markets, and man becomes a mere number in an equation he did not establish. Is it the march of sin, or does the earth reflect a mirror of our age, which is drowning in its depths, unable to comprehend this abyss towards which we are heading? Is it a wave surging from the depths of humanity, drowning everything in a sea of unfathomable madness?
And what about those gods we have created with our own hands? Do they truly reflect sublime values, or is what we consider faith merely an echo of the call of the absent crowds? The earth explodes in deep screams of death, and we stand on the edge of the abyss. Every time we try to catch our breath, we find ourselves captive to the fear that has taken root within us over the ages. Yes, it is the epic of evil spirits, but we are the ones writing its chapters with the ink of our blood.
Nothing at this moment seems stable or subject to rational explanation. Everything revolves in a vicious circle, as if the earth itself, with all its creatures and things, is shedding endless tears. It is a tragedy written by the hand of time, which knows neither mercy nor forgiveness.
In this cosmic turmoil, we are immersed in a state of astonishment at what is happening, not only because of the magnitude of the catastrophe, but also because we are unable to understand it, as if we are trying to unravel a complex puzzle while we live at its heart, unaware that it is time that is leading us, not the other way around.
Earth's Song
An epiphany of mossed cottage
The outlandish prairies lease high
For over the high altitude of dreams
A sparrow of leaden washed thought
I spare time and murmur earth’s song
A long visitor of Alpine wine
For brownish chestnut thought
A magdalen tower of higher spree
A beaver stranded upon a shooting collapse
I know not what to thee
I muse of an eponymous hero
An unsung heroine that leaves yonder thee
A blasting music came through the cottages
We were grey and happy
For the earth’s gate was high sprung elysian
As I standed with the mossed tree.
