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.

Gardun gah Manga jafo-u dunluq qildi,

Baxtim kibi, har ishta zabunluq qildi,

Gah kom sari rahnamunluq qildi,

Alqissa, base buqalamunluq qildi.

●A.Navoiy

Sometimes fate inflicted hardship and baseness upon me,

Like my fortune, it made me weak in every matter.

Sometimes it guided me towards fulfillment (or pleasure),

In short, it acted very chameleon-like.

●Translation by Shukurilloyeva Lazzatoy 

Lazzatoy Shamshodovna Shukurilloyeva

Student of the Uzbekistan State World Languages University, 1st year.

Speaks Uzbek, English, Russian, French, and Persian-Tajik. Holds an IELTS international certificate (2023) and Uzbek national language certificates (2024).

Winner of district, city, and republican-level Olympiads. 

Her creative works began to be published in newspapers during her school years, and in 2024, her creative works were included in the collection titled “Bridge of Creators,” published by Lulu Press in the USA. As an active member of the American “Foyle Young Poets” association of young poets and the Argentinian “Juntos Por las Letras” science and literature association, she actively participated in the international conference held on October 19th of this year, reading her poems in Uzbek. Many of her scientific articles been approved and published in prestigious journals. In 2025 been participated with her outstanding article in international conference devoted to Alisher Navoi. 

Participant of the “IYC 2024” conference held in New York.

Serves as a “GLOBAL PEACE AMBASSADOR” and “Child Rescue AMBASSADOR” with India’s “Iqra Foundation,” working in the field of peace and child rights advocacy.

She is also an active member of the “Òzlidep” Democratic Party of Uzbekistan.

The train coughed and shuddered to a halt at Kawaguchiko Station. Dr. Kenji Morita, biochemist and thoroughgoing skeptic, stepped onto the platform, the damp chill seeping into his bones. 

He adjusted the strap of his backpack, its weight a grim reminder of his purpose. Inside: a bottle of Suntory whisky, a Swiss Army knife, and a worn copy of Camus’ *The Myth of Sisyphus*. He’d always found a certain mordant humor in existentialism; a final joke before the lights went out. Or so he thought.

Kenji, a card-carrying atheist of the Dawkins variety, found the diagnosis especially galling. Stage IV pancreatic cancer. A cosmic punchline delivered with the subtlety of a runaway pachinko machine. Except, as it turned out, the CT scan had been misread. A shadow on the pancreas, yes, but merely a benign cyst. A sword of Damocles withdrawn at the last moment. Except, he had already bought the one way ticket.

He hired a taxi – an extravagance he’d normally eschew – and directed the driver toward Aokigahara. The forest, a thriving, dense expanse of 30 square kilometers grown atop the lava spewed from Mount Fuji in the 9th century. It was, after all, the most common place to commit suicide in Japan. As the car wound its way through the foothills, Kenji stared out the window, the dense foliage blurring into an impressionistic swirl of greens and browns. He’d always prided himself on his rationalism, his unwavering adherence to empirical evidence. Now, facing a death sentence that wasn’t, he felt adrift, unmoored from the bedrock of his convictions. He had planned on oblivion; was that such a bad fate, truly?

The taxi dropped him off at the edge of the forest. A sign, attempting to dissuade those entering with ill intent, read: “Life is a precious gift.” Kenji snorted, a plume of condensation clouding the frigid air. Sentimental pap. He stepped past the sign and into the Jukai, the “Sea of Trees.”

The air grew immediately colder, the sunlight struggling to penetrate the dense canopy. The porous lava bedrock swallowed sound, creating an unsettling stillness. He consulted his compass, noting the magnetic anomalies caused by the volcanic rock, and then set off, deeper into the woods, the weight of the backpack a constant presence on his shoulders. The trees, gnarled and twisted, clawed at the sky. It was an odd and hauntingly beautiful forest to be lost in. He passed the telltale signs: discarded backpacks, tattered clothing, empty pill bottles. Grim detritus of broken lives.

As dusk began to settle, Kenji found a small clearing, a pocket of relative openness in the oppressive woods. He pulled out the bottle of Suntory and the Camus, placing them on a moss-covered rock. He took a swig of the whisky, the harsh liquor burning a welcome path down his throat. He opened The Myth of Sisyphus. Maybe it would give him one last laugh. It was the last line he would ever read.
Then, he heard it. A whisper, carried on the wind. At first, he dismissed it as his imagination, the product of stress and too much whisky. But then it came again, louder this time, a chorus of voices murmuring, pleading, lamenting. He looked around, but saw nothing, only the silent trees, their branches like skeletal arms reaching out to him.

The voices intensified, coalescing into distinct words, phrases, fragments of lives cut short. “Gomen nasai…” Forgive me. “Modorenai…” I can’t go back. “Kurushii…” It hurts. The voices swirled around him, a cacophony of despair. And then, he saw them.

Pale figures, shimmering in the twilight, their faces etched with anguish. Yūrei, the restless spirits of Japanese folklore, they drifted between the trees, their ethereal forms flickering like dying embers. 
One, a woman in a tattered kimono, reached out to him, her eyes hollow sockets filled with an infinite sorrow. Another, a businessman in a rumpled suit, wept silently, clutching a photograph of a young girl. These were not the comforting ancestors of Shinto belief, but tormented souls, tethered to this world by regret and pain.

Kenji, the rationalist, the man of science, felt a primal terror grip his heart. His carefully constructed worldview shattered like glass. He’d spent his life dismissing the supernatural, scoffing at ghost stories as superstitious nonsense. But here they were, tangible, undeniable, their grief a palpable force in the cold night air. The yūrei in Aokigahara were those individuals “who suffered some sort of injustice during their lives.”

He remembered Azusa Hayano, the geologist who spent his life in the forest, encountering hundreds contemplating suicide. He remembered his words of encouragement, his simple act of human connection. Maybe, just maybe, these tormented souls needed something more than oblivion.

Kenji stumbled back, knocking over the bottle of Suntory. The whisky spilled onto the moss, a dark stain spreading across the green. He scrambled to his feet, the weight of the backpack now feeling unbearable, a burden he no longer wished to carry. He turned and fled, crashing through the undergrowth, the voices of the yūrei pursuing him, their sorrowful cries echoing in his ears. He was just another ‘salaryman’ running from death, from the dark and looming abyss.

He ran blindly, heedless of direction, driven only by the desperate need to escape. Thorns tore at his skin, branches lashed at his face, but he didn’t stop, fueled by a terror he couldn’t explain, a terror that transcended logic and reason. Finally, he burst through the treeline, stumbling onto the road, gasping for breath.

He looked back at the forest, a dark and impenetrable wall against the fading light. The voices were fainter now, but he could still hear them, a chorus of despair carried on the wind. He could envision the final walk of those who have died in Aokigahara forest—as well as the spirits that remain.

Kenji didn’t know if he believed in ghosts, not really. But he knew that he couldn’t face them, not yet. He couldn’t join their ranks, adding his own voice to the chorus of sorrow. Not when there was still a chance, however slim, to find some meaning, some purpose, in the life that had been so unexpectedly restored to him. 
““We need never be hopeless because we can never be irreparably broken,” he seemed to hear, faintly.

He walked back toward the station, the cold wind whipping at his face. As he walked, he thought not of death, but of life; a life that had been given back to him, a life he now had a responsibility to live. A life he had to make count. It was time to figure out what the point of it all actually was. Maybe the cyst bursting in his gut was more than the terror of the specters he had met. Maybe. He had a hunch. A hunch which had to become more.

He would return to his lab, he decided, bury himself in his research, seek answers in the cold, hard logic of science. But this time, he would also look for something more, something beyond the empirical, something that resonated with the aching sorrow he’d heard in the voices of Aokigahara. What it all meant was something he wanted to get to the bottom of; the voices in his head, the pain in his heart, all coalesced into something resembling hope. It was time to truly live. Home was where the Hell wasn’t, at least for now.

Jean-Paul Moyer, my cat, has proven himself a poet with 22 publication credits within his first year of writing. More recently, he has taken up painting with the same aplomb. 

Each morning, while the oven preheats for breakfast, I prepare newspaper, canvas and paint, which is then covered with cling wrap and a top sheet. Jean-Paul waits until catnip has been sprinkled atop it all and then hops onto the setup, moving the paint with his body.

Recalling the smell of laughter

A faint scent lingers in the creases of my palms when you leave

Something like young coconut and the tinge of oily sweat just

Dripping down the tips of thick brows. It smells like eyes just grazing

Over each other before falling down to worn miss-matched socks

Before the smell is rubbed off by dish soap, hot water,

And porcelain scrubbing off the day’s light caresses, 

I anoint myself in it, blessing my filtrum with remnants of 

Your heaving laughter, how the exhaustion of your lungs

Caused you to sweat, those bits of your joyousness engraving 

Themselves in the fortuned lines of my palms when I held your

Face earlier in the evening. I mirror my hands into my face hoping 

The smell might stay: not in my hands but in my recollections 

So when I forget what we laughed so heavily at, I will remember

We laughed. I will remember the sloppy whiff of your coconut Vaseline

Far before I remember any joke we’ve made, 

because nothing has stained my memory quite like your smell before.

ALL ALONE  I AM!

All alone I am in this earthly world

My own shadow is my only friend

Am neither infatuated nor crazy

Have never been a part of any show

Empty paths always hold me far off

Who has the sorrow of destination

Me nothing but a traveller of the heart

A lonely swan leaving the banks of lake

Busy travelling on the crest of waves

The moon and stars do simply inspire

I love myself more than anyone else.

MYTH OF THE NIGHT!

I ask noon if it has met anyone like you

I hunt for the face like yours all around

The buds haven’t found anyone like you

Florists aren’t sure of flowers like you

With that gait on heaven or the earth

The killing tresses, the lotus petal lips

Intoxicating eyes only myth of the night

The Google confirms ‘ur special status

Your uniqueness makes one really crazy

What should I call you,a Beauty or Bomb

If I may say so there is no poem like you .

SCATTERED I AM!

I want to be yours and make you mine

We are bodies intertwined into one soul

Accept this fact for all those moments

They feel like living for centuries to me

Your aroma that delights heart in toto

Slips away from my palm like rain drops

My tears obviously flow to connect you

Being crazy, I rove to find you in my alley

Scattered I am for a moment in the air

By holding your trust, I do walk ahead

My heart, a little emotional , overflows

With words splattering out of my eyes.

THE SOUL OF MY LIFE!

Your soul forces me to keep on walking

In my dejected and gloomy world

Even the seas are thirsty and famished

The nectar is in the beauty of your eyes

Can I paint your image or write a poem

An amalgamation of hues and rhythms

You’re the beat of my innocent heart

And the very soul of my mortal life

Your breath is as fragrant as blooms

Your arms have the softness of lotus

The brightness of sunray is in the face

A deer I do find in your gracefulness

Your love can stitch up my torn heart.

Biography of the Author

Dr. Prasana Kumar Dalai (DOB 07/06/1973) is a passionate Indian Author-cum- bilingual poet while a tremendous lecturer of English by profession in the Ganjam district of Odisha.

He is an accomplished source of inspiration for young generation of India .His free verse on Romantic and melancholic poems appreciated by everyone. He belongs to a small typical village Nandiagada of Ganjam District, the state of Odisha.

After schooling he studied intermediate and Graduated In Kabisurjya Baladev vigyan Mahavidyalaya then M A in English from Berhampur University PhD in language and literature and D.litt from Colombian poetic house from South America. He promotes his specific writings around the world literature and trades with multiple stems that are related to current issues based on his observation and experiences that needs urgent attention.

He is an award winning writer who has achieved various laurels from the circle of writing worldwide. His free verse poems not only inspires young readers but also the ready of current time. His poetic symbol is right now inspiring others, some of which are appreciated by laurels of India and across the world. Many of his poems been translated in different Indian languages and got global appreciation. Lots of well wishes for his upcoming writings and success in the future.

He is an award winning poet author of many best seller books. Recently he is awarded Rabindra nath Tagore and Gujarat Sahitya Academy for the year 2022 from Motivational Strips . A gold medal from world union of poets France & winner Of Rahim Karims world literary prize 2023.The government of Odisha Higher Education Department appointed him as a president to Governing body of Padmashree Dr. Ghanashyam Mishra Sanskrit Degree College, Kabisurjyanagar. Winner of ” HYPERPOEM ” GUNIESS WORLD RECORD 2023.

Recently he was awarded from SABDA literary Festival at Assam. Highest literary honour from Peru contributing world literature 2024.Prestigious Cesar Vellejo award 2024 Completed 200 Epistolary poems with American poet Kristy Raines. Books. 1.Psalm of the Soul. 2.Rise of New Dawn. 3.secret Of Torment. 4.Everything I never told you. 5.Vision Of Life National Library Kolkata. 6.100 Shadows of Dream. 7.Timeless Anguish. 8.Voice of Silence. 9.I cross my heart from east to west . Epistolary poetry with Kristy Raines