DISTINCTIVE ARTISTIC ELEMENTS OF A.A. FEINBERG’S POETRY

Shukurova Sevinch Bahodir qizi

Student, Uzbekistan World Language University

English Philology and language teaching

Scientific adviser: Saydamatov Ikromjon Nazirovich

Abstract: The article explores the works of Alexander Arkadyevich Feinberg, a renowned People’s Poet of Uzbekistan. Poetry, by its very nature, is concise and often carries a significant degree of social critique. In contrast, prose, being a more expansive and explicit genre, struggles to endure the scrutiny of those who seek moral purity, even when addressing similar critiques.

Keywords: Alexander Feinberg, uzbek literature, topographical expeditions, internationalism, spiritual boundaries, life portrait.

Introduction

 The charm of Alexander Feinberg’s poetry, which shines in the sky of Uzbek and Russian poets, has won the hearts of people of different ages, views, and feats. Alexander Arkadyevich Feinberg is the author of 15 collections of poetry, including a posthumous two-volume edition, published in Tashkent, Moscow, and St. Petersburg, magazines called “New World”, “Youth”, “Mega Polis”, “Star of the East”, “New Volga”, “Arion”, as well as in periodicals on both sides of the Atlantic.

Research materials and Methodology

The memoir book about poet Alexander Feinberg, featuring contributions from 48 authors, presents a collective life portrait that goes beyond his identity as a poet, gifted essayist, and screenwriter. More than anything, it vividly portrays him as a contemporary and fellow Tashkent native, showcasing his diverse personality and creative versatility. Through the pages of this book, friends of the poet share insights into his strengths and weaknesses, his bold determination to overcome life’s challenges, his humble remorse for both intentional and unintentional mistakes, his deep devotion to his homeland, his affection for animals, and his unwavering commitment to his true calling-Poetry.

This deeply personal memoir swiftly secured its place in the history of Russian and Uzbek literature, offering a multifaceted portrayal of A. Feinberg’s era at the turn of the 20th and 21st centuries. Zoya Tumanova poignantly asks:

What signs of the times shine through the poet’s realities?

The book holds significance not only for contemporary readers but also for future generations. For any reader, it is crucial to accurately and thoroughly capture the essence of a writer’s time. This memoir vividly depicts everyday life—how people lived, their earnings, attire, and the traditions of hospitality in the East, where both expected and unexpected guests were received with warmth. It details what people ate and drank, painting a sensory-rich picture reminiscent of Flemish painters who celebrated the joys of abundance and simple pleasures. As A. Feinberg himself wrote:

“The mighty chill of aspic quivers,

Cucumber rings shimmer bright,

Salt flakes descend like tiny snowflakes,

And pepper’s black dust takes flight.”

This memoir serves as a concise encyclopedia of the poet’s life, offering insight into how Alexander Feinberg and those around him lived, loved, created, and faced the highs and lows of existence—discoveries, hardships, and creative inspiration. It introduces his close and distant friends, literary and cinematic colleagues, and even chance acquaintances from his numerous topographical expeditions, which he described in verse:

“The roads, the roads we choose to take,

They promise troubles, they threaten fate,

Both hell and paradise await.”

As Alexander Kolmogorov observed, all these individuals, bound by fate, experienced the mesmerizing artistry that seemed to run through Feinberg’s very blood. Regardless of their age, literary standing, or social position, the poet and his fellow authors shared a common and fervent passion for the written word. As Feinberg declared: “Where the word is not given, there are no rights.”

Ultimately, the memoir seeks to answer one of humanity’s most               profound questions: “Why are you here on this earth?”

“Tell me, what will be your answer

When the light flickers in the night,

And with a quiet step, the eternal one

Approaches the flame of your candle?”

His close friend and colleague, the People’s Poet of Uzbekistan Abdulla Aripov, whom Feinberg described as “a true friend of the Uzbek people and a truly national poet, who paved his way to Paradise through his life and work,” echoed these reflections.

Journalist Rustam Shagaev recounted a fascinating moment from his 50th-anniversary photo exhibition, where Feinberg was present, highlighting the poet’s ability to transform even an ordinary gathering into something memorable.

Poetry, as reflected in this memoir, encapsulates everything—meaning and conscience, hope and astonishment, fear and cunning, the skill of navigating life’s challenges, and the courage to confront them directly. It embodies both the well-established principles of modern artistic thought—humanism, internationalism, and the pursuit of social justice—and the drive to transcend conventional aesthetic and spiritual boundaries, embracing the distinct nuances of national and social identity.

Conclusion

Through his words, Feinberg reminds us of the power of poetry to capture life in all its complexity, to challenge conventions, and to preserve the essence of a generation. His legacy, intertwined with the literary and cultural history of Uzbekistan and beyond, remains a guiding light for those who seek truth and beauty in the written word.

REFERENCES:

1. https://uz.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aleksandr_Faynberg

• Valiyeva N. & Abdusamadov Z. N. (2022). Artistic Peculiarities of the Poetry of A. A. Fainberg. Kresna Social Science and Humanities Research, 148-149.
• Sobirova A.A. Analysis of stylistic means in the translation of Alexander Feinberg’s poem “The painter” from Russian into English. Oriental Renaissance: Innovative, educational, natural and social sciences (E)ISSN: 2181-1784 4(01), Jan., 2024.
•  Malykhina G. “Fainberg’s poetic mine”, Tashkent, 2014
• Tartakovsky P.I., Kaganovich S.F. “Russian-language poetry at the present stage”, Tashkent, 1991.

Artist of Shadows, Or Sleep Apnea

Chuck Taylor

Artist in his room, the bed lamp lit, the fan running — white noise to block exterior sounds — the blinds tight shut; artist of the shadows of heart, the beating inside, the mind waking with thoughts, worries kept to oneself, the others in the house sleeping, they’ve heard it before, over and over, so let the artist suffer his insomnia rage alone; artist of the shadows, his books on the walls, his touchstones easily pulled from the shelf, a passage read, his laptop’s blue glow, tap, tap, words on the screen out into the night on the web for other artists of shadows who seek what they do not know, who dream a good night’s sleep, bright energy for a bright next day but have forgot that way of being, must love and move through the day in a molasses way, lost and not remembering, hoping clarity will come again while he wakes and sleeps, wakes and sleeps, for an hour or two receives buoyant energy, and then the mind turns to fog and anger and he will try to sleep. Strange life. Alone life. The artist whispers phrases, “I’m through with this,” “I can’t go on.” He takes the dog for a walk down the night-empty streets. The artist of the shadows returns and climbs in bed. It’s four a.m. He strokes his aching legs and swallows a pill to ease the pain…

Peace

I knew a child 

When the bombs destroy her school

She cried for her books

I knew a child

When he died

He said before

I will tell all to GOd

I knew a child

That he was in the boat

With his books

When the boat sink

We found out that he was the best student

All his grades on the bottom of the sea

Was all “A+”

I knew a child

Who walked from Syria

To Turkey

With no father

No mother

No brother

No shoes

Never forget….

Better peace than war

For all daddies in heaven 

Rest in peace father

My father 

I will miss the kind face

The conversations about life and future

I will miss the time we spend in our garden

Your generosity will remain in my heart, 

As a tree blossoms

And give his shadow

You gave me so much to remember…

As a boat make a journey

U were my captain in this world..

For years and years

Silent

But strong

Farewell my father

Angels are your family now…

Your smile will be in our hearts….

Farewell my father 

Was happy to have you in my path

Farewell my father

The beauty of your soul

Will be my guide…

Forever

…..

In the morning … The spring if the horizon is spreading. From the coldest winter, the spring was lifted by a spring temper to the spring. The river laughed again in the sky in the sky in the sky. The wings birds towards the hot land will return to the hot country again. Exclusive of just the exception. The butterflies also give a more charm to spring flowers with their elegance. For some reason the whole being, for some reason, a tree never flowered. If Nahot He does not want to flower, Nahot was foreigner to him?

Those questions had made a butterfly dream on the flower. The butterfly did not think for a long time. Has his curiosity? He went to that floral tree and began to ask questions. Why didn’t you even want to bloom when the whole being demonstrated his beauty? I also wanted you to land in the flowers of you too. Then the tree: I would also flow like other trees. I bloomed even from them. But regret. I was in a hurry. I was deceived in the sunset. I opened an early bud. As a result, my flowers are freezing because of my impatience. Then I was frozen. Now I can’t help me either. Neither the winter blame for me to fall into this case nor his belly. All the guilt is on myself. I wish I was not a hassle. I was also now the brains of spring. Sorry …

Mushtariy Tòlanboyeva, Student of the 8th grade of the Erkin Vohidov School of Creativity  

Childhood Poverty in Nigeria

In my childhood want

I had small sized unleavened 

bean cakes, sugar free millet

or corn pudding, and less

sweetened beverage for breakfast.

I never had Christmas chicken,

the traditional cedar lights,

Santa’s attractive delights,

and the ambience of advent.

Each seasonal necessity was

a luxury.

My indigent ‘hood’ was drenched

by the torrential rains.

And I played, ran across and often

sank into the soft miry land.

I once borrowed a footwear from 

my reluctant neighbour.

He very grudgingly gave me what

seemed to look like medieval

chopines, suitable for the entire 

neighbourhood’s quagmire.

I lost them both on a rainy day’s

deluge in the stormy month of may.

To pay back what I’d lost, my enraged

mum meticulously saved her hard

earned wages of a fortnight and

two days.

Urban Poverty in Nigeria 

I was birthed and raised

in one squalid abode;

In the shanties of Nigeria’s 

urban hell.

My consanguineal kinship

could only give less within 

incomes below a four score

threshold.

My physical growth was stunted

by near marasmic growth stimulants.

Bereft of all that mattered,

I bemoaned my undesirable state.

I scavenged from kitchen debris to 

get my fill.

I roamed the alleys scantily clad

with fabric pot holes.

I improvised my own play delights

from discarded wastes like empty

sugar packets, unwanted chiseled wood,

bottle tops and in some cases, empty cans 

At bedtime, I had limited space

on crowded sheets, air tight spaces

stemming from so much nasal pressure,

and in most cases, vermin that sucked

my body ketchup.

My God! The scar of childhood poverty could be much deeper than imagined!

Between seconds

Funny how we count time.
We try to contain it in seconds, hours, days, years.
But we wouldn’t know time passes if memories didn’t fall like petals,
Unpacking moments we once cherished.

That once smooth skin
Is scarred with lessons and cuts from our first fall.
We learn time takes everything,
And nothing stays the same,
Reminding us to enjoy life before it ends.

But when time actually passes,
We shed tears and laugh
At the experiences life managed to carry us through.
And here we are,
Wondering where it all went.