A rant, not a rumour, about a real man

I don’t believe in an arrangement

Of a ringmaster refusing to realize,

Not reprising a role of authority

I realize was never really real.

He won’t reincarnate as a robin when

There isn’t a belief in flying free

Riding the sharks in his dying brain.

I am what remains; I relate back

To a man who can only relapse 

Where I can not keep regiving

My heart’s energy as he replays

His wrongful reasons of ruling:

A royalty his favorite shade of red.

the counter claws at the brims of my ankles

rupturing the soles of my feet, ebbing at my toes

almost there, i push my feet further into the shoe

shatters like ice, a menacing web of starburst, gasp

my foot plummets to the floor as the heel splinters

and a gelatinous liquid oozes from crimson gashes

dripping onto the fractures of the shoe like teardrops

ichor spreads, sliding over the cracked web of glass

staring at the jagged remains of a shoe, in cold

the spot light shuts, and the curtains abruptly fall

leaving me in the dark with my mercyless thoughts

only one word slips from my fragmented lips, “why?”

tracing my round fingers over the feet i had cut, too fit

into the shoes that were supposedly fit for me,

The humid summer where the breeze hesitated the mosquitos buzzed so loudly, like they were arguing with each other The grass stained my fingers Highland Place as I attempted to do cartwheels in the backyard. The sun sunk deeper into the tree-covered horizon, and the moths flew to the porchlight, I hurried inside, a child scared of the bugs that flew through the thick damp air, scared of the emerging darkness of the sky.

Today I will stare out the upstairs window, the green grass and swaying flowers stare back at me look at how the moss has crawled up the neighbor’s brown driveway, how the vibrant shades of green cover our backyards and among the green, my grandfather sits in the growing garden, picking at the weeds that bite at the roots of our flowers I’ll run down to the back door, and lay in that same garden, the grass breathing beneath me a cool exhale against my skin to give me a rest from the summer’s sweltering kisses bugs weave their way between my hair strands and the train sighs and sings this afternoon with the cars driving by on the other side of the house.

This evening, I’ll sit at the dinner table while the food sizzles on the stove when it’s brought to my plate, staring at me expectantly I’ll bite my tongue as my mother tells me I can’t eat until my grandmother sits in her chair and when she does, I’ll listen to family stories from generations ago and forget them all once I asked to be excused when the sun leaves the sight of the window, I’ll walk through this neighborhood say hello to horses that stand behind fences gaze up at the stars in the clear night sky, as they don’t shine the same in San Francisco and I’ll feel a breeze for the last time for a long time. and tonight,

I’ll lay in bed With blankets up to my lips and I’ll fight against my fluttering eyelids who’d like to sleep I’d like to stay conscious, like the feeble night-light who paints the walls a darkened yellow and the crickets sing me quiet lullabies beyond the window and the passing train that harmonizes upon their melody before I finish my fight to keep my eyes open.. It is the next morning,

When I awake, sometime between 11 and 12 pm, my blankets still cover my body, yet the crickets have left me “he’s gone” sings the fan, who does not provide any breeze to me whatsoever I don’t need someone to tell me what I already know the silence provides us an endless reminder anyways, The weeping of my mother, the confusion of my grandmother, the presence of my uncle, the complaints of my father, the overgrown weeds in the backyard and the poor flowers they have bitten, all provide endless reminders anyways.

Tonight when the lights begin to dim, I fight to close my eyes the crickets who once sung me to sleep, now scream like bickering parents and I toss and turn to their never-ending song, their endless reminder an endless reminder of what I once had, the grass-stains on my fingers and pants, the horses that stood behind fences, fences now broken and resting upon the ground, the moths attached to the porchlight, my impatience as I waited for my grandmother to appear out of the kitchen, the flowers of the garden, tall and proud, the bugs that crawled upon my body, the dimness of my room at midnight, lit by the feeble night-light the song belonging to the crickets, the sight of my grandfather picking at the weeds in the growing garden, an endless reminder of what I’ve lost.

I took inspiration from Yehuda Amichai’s poem with the theme of things that have been lost, along with the inclusion of family.

My impressions of the work The Affairs of the World

The Affairs of the World is a work by the author of more than a dozen novels and short stories, many touching stories, and several exciting dramatic works. In his 2005 publication, Otkir Hoshimov described his work as follows: “This story consists of short and long novels. However, in all of them there is the figure of the most important, dear person – my mother. Only the names of some have changed. The fate of these people is also connected to my mother in some way.”

Utkir Hoshimov, the People’s Writer of Uzbekistan, is a writer who has his own place and style in 20th-century Uzbek literature. His works are distinguished from the works of other writers by their simplicity and folkloric nature.

The work The Works of the World, which is famous throughout the world and loved by all readers, is also a work that stands out from other works with its folkloric nature. This work was translated into English by translator Mark Rees in 2024. While living in the world, we think that we need to think about one thing first. The one who created us from nothing, the one who brought us into the world and the one who brought us to this point now, the one who does not eat, drink, wear, does not say hot or cold, and even forgets their names for our benefit, are our parents.

We can safely say that Otkir Hoshimov’s The Works of the World is truly about mothers. Because in this work, the writer cites short stories and stories about mothers, big and small. Everyone who reads this work will cry at some points and laugh at others. It will certainly bring gratitude and change their attitude towards their mother in a positive way. The story I liked the most while reading this work was the story of “Iltijo” and “Gilam Saypoq” given at the very end of this book.

When I read the story of “Iltijo”, I was convinced that the writer went to his mother’s grave, what his mother loved, and that this book was dedicated to his mother. “Iltijo” uses so many sincere and warm words that it is impossible not to cry after reading them. Even if you cry, crying gives you such relief, you feel spiritually relieved.”Iltijo” begins like this.

Mom, I’m here… Do you hear, mom, I’m here…Look, my blue eyes have come again. Do you remember, every year when spring comes, I would take you out to the field. You would be happy to see the bright sun, the clear sky, and the blue grass. Do you remember, you would rub the marigolds that your grandchildren had picked into your eyes and say, “Goodbye, honey”…Today… marigolds have grown on you… No, no, I’m not crying, mom. I know that if I cry, you will be upset. Now… it will pass now. That’s it. In the morning, it rained heavily. It rained heavily. You taught me how to love spring rain… Then the sun came out. Look, the sun is shining… Do you remember, you told me a story about the sun. That sun is shining…

You see. I cry every time I read this story. After reading this story, I can say that no matter what we do, a person who displeases his parents will never achieve any of his goals and dreams. We often see this in life and in books. Through this work, I learned that we should all appreciate our parents and respect them while they are alive.

Abdukahhorova Gulhayo Uzbekistan University of Business and Science, 2nd year student, Uzbek Philology major

Alexandr Feinberg is one of the Best Uzbek Poets

Kaljanova Gulmira         

EFL teacher of Uzbekistan State World Language University                               

Olimova Shahina Botirjon qizi 

Student of Uzbekistan State World Language University

Abstract: Alexandr Feinberg is a national poet, connector of Uzbek and Russian literature. The poet wrote not only about Uzbek culture, nationality and history but also the personality and character of the Uzbek people. Because of his importance, his poems became popular among other nations. He translated Uzbek poems and novels that helped Russian people to get to know Uzbek literature.

Аннотация: Александр Файнберг – народный поэт, связующее звено узбекской и русской литературы. Поэт писал не только об узбекской культуре, национальности и истории, но и о личности и характере узбекского народа. Благодаря своей значимости его стихи стали популярными среди других народов. Он переводил узбекские поэмы и романы, что способствовало знакомству россиян с узбекской литературой.

Annotatsiya: Aleksandr Faynberg — xalq shoiri, oʻzbek va rus adabiyotining bogʻlovchisi. Shoir nafaqat o‘zbek madaniyati, millati, tarixi, balki o‘zbek xalqining shaxsiyati va xarakteri haqida ham yozgan. Ahamiyati tufayli uning she’rlari boshqa xalqlar orasida mashhur bo’ldi. U rus xalqining oʻzbek adabiyoti bilan yaqindan tanishishiga xizmat qilgan oʻzbek sheʼr va romanlarini tarjima qilgan.Key words: uzbek literature, nationality, connection between literatureКлючевые слова: узбекская литература, национальность, связь между литературами

Tayanch so‘zlar: o‘zbek adabiyoti, millat, adabiyot o‘rtasidagi bog‘liqlik

Introduction: Various measures have been taken in Uzbekistan to preserve the literary heritage of Alexandr Feinberg and perpetuate his name. In 2004, he was awarded the title of People’s Poet of Uzbekistan, and in 1994, the title of Honored Worker of Culture of Uzbekistan was given to him. Additionally, a monument to Alexander Feinberg was erected in recognition of his important practical work to enhance the prestige of our homeland in the international arena and strengthen cultural ties between the Russian and Uzbek people through his work.

Many events, competitions and conferences dedicated to the life of the writer, his creative legacy and his contribution to the spiritual world of our people are being held at UzSWLU. During the events, participants read and discuss Alexander Feinberg’s poems, learn about his life, and analyze his works. Moreover, the university organizes an Alexandr Feinberg stipendium every year to award students for their scientific work. Various events related to Alexander Feinberg are held in the Alley of Writers.

I am drifting, love, far away, Smoke rises from distant fires. A star takes a kiss from you, From this shore, I depart today. Along the river flows the untamed stream, You gaze at the sky — at the birds that gleam. Even the waves seem to feel the pain of parting, As if they embrace each other, softly departing.

Alexander Feinberg, as an Uzbek and Russian poet, won many hearts with his creativity and poetry. He was able to show the nationality and culture of the Uzbek people not only in Uzbek literature, but also in his poems, glorifying the Uzbek people in Russian literature. The immortal creativity of the writer, his works translated and set to music, will live forever in our hearts.

Knocking Against The Ribs

What is a heart?

Is it just the sign of being exhausted 

Does it feel like you’re falling apart

Or is it in the middle of being frosted?

If I cut open your chest, would I see it?

Or would I have to climb my way in

To find nothing but a darkened pit

Because perhaps, it would be lost within.

Does your heart knock against you quietly?

Or perhaps, it just fell into the litter

Does it feel like you’re screaming silently?

When it happens to get bitter.

Now, if I were to search and find your heart

Would it be intact, or would it have fallen all apart?