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.
mystically illegal while expanding and spilling and
running in hydroelectric momentum
] : : : : :
=gO mOvE,
TrIp / FLOW,
aiming topical hand sleeves
settling for retold deception
PiLLoWs =
= / / / /
NoR morphing diatribe
TroTs / / / / /
alternately, the bathtub correspondence machine
shifting the moon’s comedic counteroffer chores
wallowing functional floodgates that fade chronology =
But wither =
sElDoM effective
, a TooL
taken for an audience
shiver the shelf beheaded & degraded
who carried the basket, the situation lacking harmless potions
Dropp’d
\ = = bOlD = = / , praised mesmerism
, daubed, described as MusicaL dentures:
‘Nocturnal larynx
stunned through
complacent tubes’ / / / / / of
great distinguished cartography, persons named
with MorbId growth / vacant, scattered, frothy,
regenerated dreams:
MeTHoDs,
phobias, ,
hysteria, , ,
‘the SAME hat? ? ?’ / /
/ / :
; personality conflicts generalized /
suffice, un=
conscious,
freeLY associated & A
RaNgE oF
circumstances
CuRRenTlY
theoretical?
? ? ? ? Ultimately, latent,
a panorama, drowsy: sheer LiNkeD
applications; / ; /
; proximate,
pre-scientific / ‘blEEdInG
SEA-FOAM’
/ ! ! ! ! ! efforts are instructions,
frequently VeileD, heretofore,
thoroughly IM=
probable, / @@@ ^^^^^*, ‘That
Darn
Table
Salt!’*,
\ = occupied = swift hollering
DaDa BonBons / / / / / :
TransPaReNt realities, daily bathers,
LaTeNt conflicts [our disregard for entanglements] /
: pause to cOOk the dripping rebukes
until speech patterns erode
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books isolated version of nexus (Pere Ube), lung f,r,a,g,m,e,n,t,s before grazing *asterisk* (Moria Poetry), and Cubist Facelifts (C22 Press) . He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com
I’m a soldier who has lined his face to the cold wall of the trench
My bullets are words …
Place your eyes on mine!
We all are wounded in this war.
We’re all exiled in our land…
Place your eyes on mine!
Your eyes are like Bermuda Triangle
The gone never come back …
If you’re asked, respond:
The poet never came back!
***
The snow
The nights that I miss
Your voice is like a song that Lord recites
Comes like snow to my morning.
Silently…
White …
***
Tragic Poem
A piece of me has stayed far away
Under the rain
Those are gone from me, don’t have a “return” ticket
The storm is the nightmare of the trees on old nights
The fingerprint of a woman is shivering in the fancy of windows
A prisoner with hands like an elm leaf
Whose voice as light
In the name of the freedom
She may write this poem on the wall of his cell
May give birth by the voice of pigeons instead of the sun this spring
Instead of the bullet wound of the girl in this war
May shot this poem into her heart …
“May”s are birds of pain in the sky of wishes
Fly … fly … and disappear.
The past of my hands are Greek Gods
Has been forgotten
Buried in the cemetery of history
My eyes were buried in your far beautifulness
Bury me with my loneliness in autumn colors
It’s autumn …
Leaves are bulletin of elections
The trees elect the death
***
The cemetery of letter
I kissed the darkness of the night …
I entered into the sun pages of the morning.
My hands bear the greenness of leaves,
Spring is my hands …
Looked into the world to find my eyes.
The legs of men pain,
Scarf blows on the head of the woman,
The scarf
Blows like the flag of the country,
Blows …
The hands are opened to the poem in my mind,
Catches the skirt of twilight,
The opened hands for the poem in my mind are shackled,
Drowned in the sweat
It’s a long time, the mirrors don’t show the poets
Poets have been buried in the cemetery of letters
Here, the sun sets down with the time of women
Here, the wind blows from darkness
***
The love beast
Nothing remained for trust
Nothing remained for waiting
The last train left empty
The people of memories didn’t catch the train …
This season passed very hard
Like a year without spring
Nothing remained for cheering glasses
No kneed to rest our heads …
The color of my voice is autumn
Falls from the boughs of love
The lips are closed …
The window is covered by steam …
The beast of my love lives in a glass
Breaks by a word
I can die by a word …
Umid Najjari was born on 15th of April 1989 in Tabriz (Iran). After graduating from Islamic Azad University of Tabriz in 2016, he entered Baku Aurasia University to continue his studies in Philology in Republic of Azerbaijan. “The land of the birds” and “Beyond the walls” are among his published works in addition to some translations. His poems have been published in USA, Canada, Spain, Italy, India, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Chile and Iranian media. He was awarded the International LIFFT festival diploma in 2019. He achieved “IWA Bogdani” Award in 2021. He was awarded the “Mihai Eminescu” Award in 2022. He was awarded the International Prize “Medal Alexandre The Great” in 2022. He is Vice-President of the BOGDANI international writers’ association, with headquarters in Brussels and Pristina. and Turkic World Young Authors Association.
In the section GENERAL INFORMATION-CONTACTS you can find all you need to know. Starting from the text of Dylan Thomas’ poem SHOULD LANTERNS SHINE, this year’s suggested themes are 2:-LIGHT CAN WIN DARKNESS-NOSTALGIA FOR CHILDHOOD TIME LONG GONE. You can choose one of these themes or you can send your works as “responses” to the Poet’s words:
Previously published in Children, Churches and Daddies.
Deb Hatcher
The last day that I saw Debbie Hatcher, she was just 15 years old. Slender and pretty and dressed in a skirt that hugged her hips, she was cute as a button. She had shoulder length light brown hair and a gold herringbone locket she’d received for her fifteenth birthday. She wore it literally everywhere; she was so proud of being in love with a boy who would bestow such a precious gift on her.
We were standing in the school library, in the Ds, somewhere between Durant and Dante, searching for a likely subject for a book report, when, madly impulsive, I approached her as if in a dream and kissed her lips. She was startled at first, but when the shock had disappeared, she let her guard down and kissed me back. I had known Deb since grade school, but only fantasized about her as a sort of forbidden treasure, lovely to admire from a distance, but strictly unapproachable.
Here I was, Tim Meese, not yet 16, and kissing a girl for the first time. And what a girl! I silently congratulated myself for starting at the very top of the social pyramid. She leaned into me and I into her, until we were both quite lost. At length, old, old Mrs. Kroger — she must have been at least 50 — the school librarian, sneaked down the aisle and coughed peremptorily. We instantly separated, embarrassed to have been found out. Although this was my initial foray into kissing, it was clearly not the first time that Deb had been kissed. She was far too expert at it to be a novice.
We glanced at Mrs. Kroger, to assess the level of trouble we were in, but she smiled her secret smile and withdrew. I felt supercharged, and Deb seemed similarly affected. She leaned close and whispered to meet her after school at her house; I hastily agreed. And what of the necklace-giving boyfriend? It turned out that his family had moved to the coast two weeks before and so at least he was no longer in contention for Deb’s affections. But I didn’t know this yet.
After lunch, I spied Deb in the corridor between classes, walking with her friends. I smiled at her, but she looked right through me. I blinked. Weren’t we inexorably linked forever, having tasted one another’s lips and even shared a breath? Had I only imagined our reconnoitering in the library? I shook my head and proceeded on to class.
After school let out, I anxiously plodded the three blocks to Maple Street, where Deb’s house stood. When I arrived, I knocked at the door and Mrs. Hatcher, a stay-at-home mom, which nearly all moms were back in the day, invited me in to wait for her daughter. We engaged in small talk and she plied me with pretzels, chips and Pepsis. Gazing about the living room, I spotted a photo of Deb and Jason, the boy who’d given her the locket. I didn’t know him well and stared at him disconsolately, enviously.
Mrs. Hatcher went on to tell me that Jason’s father had taken a job with an aircraft manufacturer in Los Angeles, and so that was the last they would see of Jason. She didn’t seem at all unhappy at the prospect, condemning him as “too progressive,” whatever that meant. Mrs. Hatcher remembered me from second grade, when her daughter and I had been matched up to perform the minuet in some stale elementary school production of a 200-year-old play. She inquired politely how my dancing was commencing. I told her that I was more into The Twist and The Mashed Potato these days, and she sniffed.
After quite a long time, the telephone jangled off the hook and Mrs. Hatcher snatched it up. She listened for some time, drew a sharp breath and said, “I’ll be there.” She looked stricken and then stared off into space for an interminable moment, and finally turned to me and said, in a choked voice, “You’d better go home, Tim,” and she disappeared into another room. I quietly let myself out.
The telephone call and Mrs. Hatcher’s behavior was a mystery to me, and I didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t until the next day at school, when word leaked out. Deb Hatcher was dead. She had copped a ride on an upperclassman’s motorcycle and there had been an accident. Deb, unlike the driver, didn’t have a helmet and had suffered terminal injuries when she fell from the bike and struck her head on the pavement. The driver suffered only minor injuries.
It gave me a weird, eerie, ghostly feeling to know that I was the last boy to ever kiss Deb Hatcher. She’d had her whole life before her: additional boyfriends, a husband, children of her own, a career, perhaps. She was smart; no telling how far she might have gone. And, just maybe, she would have gone there with me. They offered a sort of rudimentary grief counseling at the school and they dedicated the yearbook to Deb and one other boy, who’d died from leukemia. I didn’t see the grief counselor and I didn’t buy the yearbook. I didn’t need the glossy photo to remember Deb. I attended the funeral. They had a closed casket.
Bivouacking among nameless bards, sounding boards transfixed by twinges of toothache,
i summon monsters masked by pain and anguish under bombardment
skilful tightrope walkers on the strings of enchantment, or disenchantment,
intermittent comet stars.
Shunning wishes of the Maurizio Costanzo Show,
like eighties vates, we take to the streets to sing,
and to endure charges like animals in battery,
never surrendering to the scheming
created by statesmen alien to all embarrassment.
OUT OF ISCHEMS
Try, once in your life, to stop living outside each ischeme,
without constant ink interruptions to the vein’s phoneme,
so that the western crisis becomes an occipital crisis,
with the saving of ants increase the consumption of cicadas.
As you stopped reading, at least stop writing
‘public’ that doesn’t exist and forces us to sell books like vacuum cleaners,
Porta a Porta, where Novi Aldi goes on Vespa and returns Bompiani,
after abandoning Theseus’ ship, in whiff of hurricanes.
This is the century, or the millennium, of the professional artist
not knowing how to do anything, you are content to remain a figurehead,
among the various shrewd actors and actresses of the publishing market
willing to give their children to a rom in exchange for an inch of shelf space
in the prestigious Feltrinelli bookshop in your town
you don’t want to stop living out of ischems, c’aggia fa?
I DON’T CARE
For the last twenty years or so, ‘I don’t care’ has been back in fashion,
herds of brainless constipated people, all, in search of the rehabilitierung of ego,
brick by brick, in the black shirt of ignorance organising raids,
with the outcome of ending up dead, a mosquito bite away, on couch Freud’s.
The new mass, without any strength, waiting for an acceleration,
placed under scrutiny receives its models from television magazines,
moved by a self-esteem disproportionate to its actual neural entity,
ite, missa est, giving extreme unction, being a cancerous mass.
Talking to the average italian is like talking to Louis XVI,
an anencephaly patient who dreams of residing in the Medici court,
living in Masters of Florence, the Renaissance soap opera,
forcing you to surrender to the Magone as Lucius Chinchus Alimentus.
With the new ‘I don’t care’ generations we should build democracy,
stuff of exterminating homo sapiens sapiens with an attack of epizootics,
we will rely on a detailed deliberative referendum of protest,
forcing our fellow-citizens to use their heads.
ASSAULT ON THE OVENS
Panem et circensens is asked of the contemporary artist,
playing the clown at readings grants 15 minutes of impromptu success,
they read kilometres of verse, written in half an hour, with a shrewd attitude,
they would also declaim verses in arabic if Isis established a Caliphate in Palermo.
They read, read, read, all the flour of their infinite sack
and we, with our gags on, to be subjected to their dribbling to end up in checkmate,
the queen, bored, is undecided whether to fuck the king or a horse,
and the contemporary reads, reads, without allowing us an interval,
without allowing himself an interval, between one bullshit and another, without ever being satisfied
he has to bring home the bread-roll, hey, as an artist who boasts of being overpaid.
THE BARBARIAN AND THE PRINCESS
To you who observe with your bistro eyes my discontents
you defuse me with a smile, you neutralise me with a love
as enduring as a Compact Fluorescent Lamp,
becoming aeriform, neon, argon, krypton,
maybe it’s the krypton that deactivates my Superman cravings,
climbing up my spine with catlike paws,
dissuading me from gobbling, from drinking, from brawling, from stopping writing.
Princeza romana, eu sou seu bárbaro,
i keep wearing white tank tops in my black underwear
not washing the dishes, banging on the keys,
better than washing the keys and banging on the dishes,
i kidnapped you on a raid on the coasts of Gaeta,
enchanted by you, late-modern Circe,
capable of turning pigs into men,
pig’s heart is equal to the human heart,
you alone have understood this, in twenty years, with your insulinous carefreeness,
with your insecurities, with your premenstrual breakdowns, with your questioning face,
always capable of disconcerting me, square mime destined to go bald,
without replacing me.
Princeza romana, eu sou seu bárbaro,
yet without being able to dedicate Odi barbare to you,
i am not equipped to hate anyone, or to mix metres,
– what shall we do, half a metre?- better my aptitude for duelling,
Ro rocamboling, half Cyrano de Bergerac and half Socrates,
i’m convinced that you prefer me whole, and long-life,
not having the ambition of the modern woman
to turn her man into an asshole.
AT THE TAVERN OF SOLID LOVE
My little love, solid, you, today, fell
and i was not there to support you, with my aggressive biceps
of a barbarian from the northern forests, my face painted blue,
lying in the spasmodic berserksgangr of drinking from the skulls of the vanquished,
it all begins with a trembling, chattering of teeth and a feeling of cold,
immense rage and a desire to assault the enemy.
My little love, fragile, you, today, fell,
and there is a tavern behind our house, all brianzola, your new world,
there is a tavern that serves a hundred and a hundred types of risotto
to spread on your wounds and on your skinned knees,
where i, imperative man, can still interpret every amber darkness
in your wise child’s eyes, manipulating the kaleidoscope of your irises,
voluntarily uncovering my flank to the dagger of your arctic lucidity.
If not a tavern, our love, resembles us: we eat and live,
remunerating each other, victories and defeats, hôtellerie, we bustle and eat,
until the innkeeper Godan, the god of stubborn ‘poets’, slams a mug of mead on the table
invite us to dance at Walhalla, Mocambo a contrario, dance far away, to the end of the worlds,
you will return to the simple freshness of your sea, you wandering caetan siren of sand,
and to me the fog-damp earth of the valley without ascents or descents will not weigh on my zinc.
In the ancient taverns of solid love continue to mix fog and sea-water,
outside thunderstorms, lightning and thunder, liquefied by the cloudburst everything is drying out,
and we, we eat and live, we bustle and eat, sheltered, in our reserve of happiness,
aware that, hovering in the air, in the long run,
the misty ice crystals will flow into the sea.
Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2024, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni and Kolektivne NSEAE with Divinafollia. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica. It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and is included several times in the major international literature magazine, Gradiva. His verses are translated into 25 languages. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology) [https://kolektivnenseae.wordpress.com/].
