Poetry from Sushant Thapa

Young South Asian man with short dark hair and a light colored striped collared shirt.

Against all odds

Art is a muddy walk

It is a hit for the target.

It gets heavy

When no colors can

Show your plight

And make them beautiful.

A casual hello

Can make us remove

Thunder from the sky

And plant a rainbow seed.

I take up your time,

Like you know me.

Something waits like

Sadness in the forest

To clear its fog.

The trees bow down

In silence,

And the tombstones are too

Rigid.

A tear grows to smiling garlands,

When appreciation

Flows like river-wine.

Art stands against all odds.

Sushant Thapa is a Nepalese poet who holds an M.A. in English from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India with nine books of English poems and one short story collection to his credit. His poems are published at Synchronized Chaos,  The Kathmandu Post, Trouvaille Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Outlook India, Corporeal Lit Mag, Indian Review, etc. He is a lecturer of English in Biratnagar, Nepal.

Essay from Michael Robinson

Middle aged Black man facing the camera with his face resting on his hand
Michael Robinson

As I grew up in my relationship with God, I’ve found that my awareness of Jesus was growing.I’m working on writing an essay of Jesus on the Cross.

It’s the place of the Skull. As we think of Salvation and Redemption, I think about Jesus and his healing ministry. We should remember that Jesus’ life was a life of healing for those who were ill.

Seeking more than Redemption, it’s seeking healing of the soul. Redemption adds to our wholesomeness of salvation. However, our walk with Jesus as we carry our Cross in our daily walk with getting to know the fullness of salvation is to know God’s purpose for our entenal soul.

Our walk is not only to know Jesus, but to understand his Crucifixion and his total obedience to the Holy Father. There’s no true life without knowing that obedience to follow in Christ steps to know the Holy Father and to live in the spiritual path provided for our sins and Resurrection.

Essay from Aytuvova Khurshida

Central Asian young woman with long dark hair and a tan jacket and blouse.

PSYCHOLOGICAL APPROACHES IN CHILDREN’S EDUCATION

Scientific article 

Author: Aytuvova Xurshida 

Emile: ( aytuvovaxurshida@gmail.comAnnotation This article analyzes the importance of psychological approaches in children’s education, their types and impact on the educational process. Through humanistic, cognitive and socio-educational approaches, the child’s development as a person, learning motivation, emotional state and individual approaches are considered as important factors. This article provides practical recommendations for teachers, psychologists and specialists in the field of education. Keywords child psychology, educational process, humanistic approach, motivation, emotional development, cognitive development, individual approach, pedagogical psychology Introduction In the modern educational process, an approach taking into account the psychological state of the child has become an integral part of pedagogical activity. In contrast to traditional approaches, today there is an increasing need to take into account individual, personal and socio-emotional factors in the educational process. The development of a child as a person, his success in the educational process, social adaptation and self-confidence are largely closely related to psychological factors. 

Main part

1. Types of psychological approaches There are several main approaches in pedagogical psychology:

Humanistic approach: This approach puts the child at the center. Famous psychologists A. Maslow and K. Rogers emphasize the importance of giving the child trust, respect, and freedom for personal growth in their humanistic theories. – Cognitive approach: This method is aimed at developing children’s mental processes such as thinking, memory, and attention. J. Piaget’s theory of intellectual development is an example of this. – Socio-educational approach: This theory, put forward by A. Bandura, shows that children can learn by observing the behavior of others. This indicates the need for education through a positive example from teachers and parents.

2. Taking into account the psychological characteristics of the child The psychological development of a child varies at each age. Children aged 6–10 are more prone to figurative thinking and prefer to learn based on real situations. Also, self-assessment, socialization, and motivational factors are of great importance during this period. 

3. 3. The influence of motivation and emotional state Motivation is one of the main factors that shape a child’s internal desire to learn. In an educational environment with a favorable psychological climate, children develop more actively, freely express their thoughts, and are creative. A kind, patient, and understanding teacher increases a child’s interest in learning. 4. Individual approach and differentiated education Each child has his or her own psychological and mental potential. A differentiated approach, that is, an approach based on the level of abilities of each student, increases the quality of education. In this process, diagnostic methods (psychological tests, interviews, observations) are used.

Conclusion

The effective use of psychological approaches in education not only increases children’s academic achievement, but also helps them develop personally, gain self-confidence, and find their place in society. A teacher should not only be a provider of knowledge, but also an understanding and guide for the child. Therefore, special attention should be paid to the cooperation of a teacher and a psychologist in the modern education system.

Aytuvova Khurshida was born on June 5, 2002 in Saykhunabad district of Syrdarya region. She graduated from the Faculty of Philology of Gulistan State University, Russian language department. Official delegate of several forums, member of international organizations. Member of the International Writers’ Association “Juntos por las Letras” of Argentina. Her creative works have been published in international newspapers and magazines. Author of her personal book “Stories in Silence” and the international anthology “Miracles of Creativity”. Her stories have also been published in the republican anthology “Mouths of Creativity” and in the republican magazine “Ijodkorlar”

Poetry from J.J. Campbell

Middle aged white man with a beard standing in a bedroom with posters on the walls
J.J. Campbell

—————————————————–

trapped in the neon

one of those summer

nights where those

lovely eyes trapped

in the neon won’t

leave your mind

the kind of nights

where a carton of

cigarettes and a

bottle of jack

wouldn’t last

until dawn

loneliness aches like

no other pain as you

approach fifty

the friends have

wives and kids

you have a closet

full of baseball cards

and notes from high

school of what could

have been

echoes of laughter

will take you to hell

before any sleep

can be had

only the sick enjoy

the sickness

a drop of sweat

on a typewriter

years of pain

just like all

the other fools

———————————————-

from the grocery store

there is a sign

on the side of

the road that i

see when i drive

home from the

grocery store

it says drive like

your kids live

around here

when i see that

sign, i hit the gas

all my kids were

aborted

if they are still

around here

someone has

some fucking

explaining to

do

————————————————

booty shorts

the ugliest people

wear the skimpiest

clothes

first day of the heat

and a fat woman has

on booty shorts where

there is no booty

and then of course

i remind myself

the beautiful people

live south of here

the dregs of society

are still up here

present company

included

————————————————–

gave up on me

went to sleep right

as i heard the news

that the pope had

died

i had a dream the

catholic church

couldn’t find a

new one as all

the pedophiles

knew they couldn’t

take the job

i gave up on religion

right about the time

god gave up on me

more than one christian

has asked me to pinpoint

the moment and i always

say probably when one

too many of you decided

being molested was all

part of god’s plan for me

that hard liners know

they never can change

my mind

the thinkers know there

are much easier things

to think about

—————————————————-

an old man approaching death

i believe my left hip is

nothing but arthritis now

i walk with a limp

not the fucking cool

kind but an old man

approaching death

the spanish princess

offered to take a bath

with me

if either of us could

survive the thousands

of miles between us

it would be worth

every cent and ounce

of pain

these are the nights

i finish a bottle or two

and hope it kills the pain

for a few hours of sleep

yet another day of pop

up thunderstorms and

unrelenting heat

and here i thought

the glory years would

have a better feel to

them

instead, i can’t help

but think of my father

and how that sad sack

of shit was always right

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, slowly dying like everyone else. He’s been widely published over the last 30 years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. He might have a new book coming out soon, at least that is the rumor. You can find him most days betting on soccer and baseball and whatever other sport he thinks he can hit a big parlay on. He also has a blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Poetry from Alan Catlin

Dusking

The end of

each day

reveals

a new kind

of nightmare

since the sky

became a menace

of birds

Their horrible

voices echo

in our ears

long after

the receding,

obscene coloration

of sky

had faded

from our sight

like bruises

lifted from our

skin and transferred

what lies overhead

Wherever we go

now there will

be no respite

Our eyes deceive us

Blood from severed

tree limbs stains

the mottled bark

puddling amid

the dead fall

branches, needles

and leaves

The small fires

that burn

the night smell

like dead wood,

burning flesh

We see the unnatural

colors of the flames

the wonders of

smoke that has

no apparent source

Listen to my heart beat

While we were

sleeping some

ear candling

was undertaken

without our permission

Remnants of wax

cling to our

cheeks and are

stiff on the ground

near where we

were resting

Each clot of

black wax

residue

exudes a pulsing

light that mimes

our heart beat

and the insistent

ringing in our ears

that leaves messages

in our brain

we have not been

able to decode

Hollow Mazes

As the marked

paths through

the Hollows

now end in

deer blinds

and cul de sac

we are perpetually

confused by

the simplest turning

in the woods

Low lying fog

and swamp gases

no longer

burn off or are

carried away

by offshore

breezes

Each maze

we enter

feels more

threatening

than the last

Ahead is almost

the same as where

we once were

Where we are now

is nowhere

A sleep wander

Almost by accident

we tumble

upon an open

field were dreams

go to die

At first

we thought all

the tiny crosses

were memorials

to pets who

were brought here

to be interred

Only later,

when we found

the polished skulls

of human creatures

too anomalous

to survive,

did we understand

the pet graveyard

was elsewhere

near where

the poison plants

were grown,

nurtured by

a septic water

source

Poetry from Paul Murgatroyd

A WONDERFUL LIFE

Kathy, lovely Kathy,

you’re just seventeen,

a sixth former with slip-on self-assurance,

doing an additional A-level

(in Sophistication),

talking Blake and Camus over coffee,

inhaling Coltrane and Beethoven’s late quartets,

Kathy with the liquefying lips and willing breasts

and spring in your smile.

You’re free from

the quagmire of kids

(nappies, potties, snot, spots);

games of happy families with cardsharper in-laws

and the Oedipean, Oresteian tragedy

of turning thirty;

after that the long death-march across mindless plains,

mediocre amid mediocrities,

just another Cycladic head;

days, weeks, months, years, decades of sameness –

dull, dull, dull, dull, dull,

only enlivened by prostate trouble and piles;

finally a joyless retirement from a meaningless job;

then afternoons of staring at dust-motes in wintry sunbeams;

unliving your life by forgetting bits of it;

waiterly disdain and the furious indifference of shop assistants;

insidious dilapidation – wonky eyes and ears, squiggly fingers,

insubordinate bowels

and the ultimate betrayal, by the bastard liver –

falling asleep after four drinks.

Kathy, lovely Kathy,

you’re free from all that

and still seventeen

over sixty years later.

You’ll always be seventeen

until I die

and with me my memories

of my first girlfriend

before the move for dad’s new job

made me lose touch with you.

Actually

she’s almost certainly snuffed it by now,

or is slowly zimmering off into the sunset,

like me,

fallen among husks

that are drooling in the death row of armchairs

in front of the shouty TV,

confounded by Coronation Street,

here in our frigging home from home –

the Enchanted Elders Serenity Centre.

SYNECDOCHE

Two trees

grey gaunt

no leaves no buds no nests

branches and twigs clenched in agony,

a madman’s scribble on the sky

motionless writhing

speechless screaming

two contorted torture victims;

refugees from lands of famine and flood

reaching out Belsen-thin fingers and arms;

when the wind blows,

skeletons jerking in a dance of death

a prodigy beside a portent.

The man had been pissed off because these two trees at the bottom of his

neighbour’s garden blocked the sunlight for his boozy barbecues, so one

night he leaned over the fence and poured diesel oil on their roots,

murdering nature.  

Essay from Brian Barbeito

Older middle aged Canadian man winking under his reading glasses. Hazy background, he's wearing a tee shirt.

You see, I told her, ‘There are small sand paths framed by green grasses, thick and beautiful in themselves…resilient grasses, and the ways lead to the places by the sea.’

‘Oh it does.’

‘Oh it does. Or, they do,’ I said, ‘and all the cliche things are there, the tropes as it were, but such things though the literati speak against them, are wonderful. Who will need anyone really? The warm breeze. The sun kisses the coastline and all around.’ 

‘Nice.’

‘It’s better than nice. There is a pier. Two actually. One to the north and one to the south.  There are loquacious birds, and they are against reason and logic, wise. They know things. We can be mystics also, like the birds are. Scry the sky. Watch the water. Intuit the wind. Make poems and pictures…’

I looked outside. The cold wind threw some garbage around and nothing even got anywhere. A stand of boulevard trees were the wrong colour on trunks and old leaves for traffic pollution. Not even a painter with several choices of grey could find a more rueful and uninspiring hue to declare the firmament with. And this grey was everywhere, for it must have melted into the earth and saturated it when a heartless joker was making the too long season. Loud modified cars, read noise pollution, yelled their egos, their small-mindedness and gauche vulgarity to anyone that could hear. And miles of uniform urban sprawl. No bird in sight. 

‘Hey,’ I asked her, ‘what was that term you used to use to denote people whose personalities became otherwise awkward, strange, cold, odd, for their value system and circumstance? Ungrounded people. Did you say “stunted”?’ 

‘Affected.’

‘Affected. That’s it.’

‘Ya. Affected.’

‘Let the affected have the affected. That’s great. They love one another. Let the affected live happily ever after. I wish them the best, that all their status quo dreams of shining mediocrity come true, and a thousandfold a that. But far away from me. I will be, beside the sea. See, that rhymes.’

‘Very funny.’

I glanced out and some poor soul, an elderly lady in a big coat, almost got hit by a car that rolled through a light turning. She stopped just in time. Then, what could she really do? The wind soon practically threw her over also. Many forces she had to battle, I thought. 

‘Anyways,’ I continued, trying to draw my conclusion, ‘I know a place. There is all that, and inland just a bit, is a marketplace with friendly souls, to get things. There used to be a small bookstore there also. Come to think of it, imagine if it is still there. I wonder. Probably not. But you know…it could be. It just might be there still.’ 

‘Are we gonna tend to the rabbits, George? Tell me about the rabbits George.’

‘Funny. I don’t mean it like that. Well maybe a bit. But you aren’t Lennie, and this is no book. There is nothing here, or not much…’

‘It’s a tale as old as the coast you describe.’

‘So what? Ya so what if it is? It’s new for every person journeying it in reality or imagination or both.’

And I could hear the sound of southern water somehow, for a second, like a sanguine auditory vision, a psychic impression. I realized it was a fountain and it took a minute to think away from it and go back, but I realized it was because there was a fountain right outside that market I had spoken of, had lauded. All this was then interrupted by the cacophony of a groups’ haughty course laughter under the blinking lights, lights intent on causing a headache where possible. Lights not like the light of the moon or the sun, lights not like the pink blue purple green, even orange electric and eclectic lights of those southern grounds, poetically and somehow musically accenting the earth (lights dreamt of and wished for). No, the current lights were too strong. They were blinding fluorescent lights. 

And they had no soul.