Ian the Black Sheep

The second of four Fleming
brothers with a hero father
an über-wealthy grandfather
an overbearing mother
oh, Ian the black sheep
moody, withdrawn, long
hair slicked back exuding
the promise of something
dashing or daring, risks

in his piercing blue eyes
great laugh all the girls
flocked to him, his friends
lost out to him at Eton
his future spy network
fatherless boys whose dads
had died in World War I
he learned German, French
a bit of Russian he decided
he wanted to write novels
but held off, his older brother
a young author and Ian
flunked the diplomat exam

became a writer for Reuters
charming, persuasive, magnetic
an iconoclast people liked him
in Moscow to cover a sham
trial of two English businessmen
when he saw the dark hand
of Russia murderous, devious
in his future spy novels and
his book collection growing
he treated women the same way:
hunt, acquire, shelve

oh, the seductive playboy
a smooth rock against which
so many reckless women
dashed themselves.

Ian the Spy

Left out of his grandfather’s estate
the only heir without funds
he worked for a living
for newspapers, banks
and a job as a personal aid
to the director of Naval Intelligence
laying the groundwork
for the greatest intel alliance
in history he helped build
the CIA as well
but never talked
about what he did he did
start to drink too much
during the war
his 450 operatives
captured Enigma machines
to decode Nazi plans

the life or death drama, the risks
he recreated while managing
a newspaper syndicate
during the Cold War
a global cadre
of reporter spies
saving the world
from Russian aggression

he rose to the challenge
for the rush, oh the rush
that incandescent high
one only experiences
in a moment of greatness
he was able to recapture
with his writing
in his novels
on the risks, the wins
against the evil empire
by the glamorous Brit
the dapper super-spy
double-oh seven
James Bond.

Ian at Goldeneye

He fell in love with
a rum punch on arrival
fresh fruits, fresh fish
the colors, scents, trees
swaying palms and mangos
warm rain on warm waves
caressing the white sand
on the island of Jamaica.

He’d lost his first love
a sweet Swiss girl
at his mother’s demand
then Muriel, his love
a motorcycle dispatcher
killed in the war
his married older lover
Maud warned him
no, not Ann
Lady Ann, chaos Ann
but he liked her because
of her independence
her toughness he said
she was such a bitch.

On fourteen acres north
of Montego Bay
he built his home
with money from Maud
no glass in the windows
big sky, turquoise sea
blue floors and birds
flying in and out
natural and peaceful
he called it Goldeneye

Ann visiting, leaving
a son her husband
believed was his own
divorce and a marriage
Ian didn’t want, violent
whippings he maybe did.

Ian as James Bond

Swimming in clear water
above parrot fish, barracuda
escaping into a hidden world
under deadline he sits down
at his battered Royal typewriter
with the mind of a sexy boy scout

introducing a British ultra-hero
attractive to men and women
dangerous, exciting, patriotic
the ultimate suave spy
himself but romanticized
a fast car fantasy life:
sharp clothes, fine foods
whiskey, gin, martinis
a string of bedworthy girls
a chain of cigarettes
in solitude, darkness
Scottish melancholy.

After the first sale
a Bond every year
all done the same way:
an early morning swim
then hours in the study
two months in Jamaica
editing in Manhattan
retyping in England
one after another until
even JFK would ask:
“What would Bond do?”

Finishing the first book
the bang-bang, kiss-kiss
he hands in the manuscript
in time to marry Ann
and suffers for twelve years
writing eleven more books
smoking, drinking, escaping
her mockery, his depression
before the final chapter
of his filmworthy life:
a glass of whiskey and
dead at the height of fame.

Dream Note: Road Repair

For no apparent reason, he suddenly stood outside a village

rows of poplar forests, neatly staggered, dividing the fields

He halted in the middle of a dirt road—puddles, mud

as if it had just rained, leaving him trapped between

Ahead: endless countryside and a black path stretching on

Behind: a strange village where no one knew his name

villagers seemed to want no part of him

ignoring his awkward plight without a second glance

Just then, eldest brother Yongping abruptly appeared

his calmness offered a momentary sense of peace

 They began stuffing dry soil into the puddles

to repair the road—the blue sky in the puddles

Gradually shrinking, fragmenting, yet the mud remained

too slick to tread, as if the road were sinking deeper

They abandoned the effort, then started urinating there

like in childhood, urine arcing clear and strong

no laughter—their faces grave

ss if this were a duty that must be done

Alone on the road, just the two brothers

the village lay silent, as if long deserted

the fresh post-rain air filled the green fields

No one knows if they ever left safely

June 23, 2025

记梦：修路

不知怎么他突然就到了一座村庄外面

一排排白杨树林，错落有致，隔断了田野

他停在一条土路中间，水洼，泥泞

似乎刚刚下过雨，他进退不得

向前是无尽的乡野和黑色的小路

向后是陌生的村庄，没有人认识他

村民们似乎也不想与他有任何关联

对他尴尬的处境视而不见

就在这时，大哥永平突然出现了

他的平静让他暂时安下心来

他们开始往水洼里填干土

要把道路修好，水洼里的蓝天

渐渐缩小，破碎，但依然泥泞

不堪涉足，似乎道路在不断下沉

他们放弃了努力，开始向那里撒尿

像童年时一样，尿液的抛物线清晰，强劲

他们没有笑，他们很严肃

似乎这是一件必须完成的任务

路上只有他们兄弟二人

村子里一片寂静，似乎已经无人居住

雨后清新的气息弥漫在绿色的田野里

无人知道，他们是否安全地离开了那里

2025年6月23日

Moon curve silver contrasts sky slivered rather sharply streaking swift light shards shot unto visional tablature eccentric literature eloquent language form. Shadows shade plus shadows form habitat below. Each passer-by mental engrossed clicks gravel shoe muddied or screech tyres same muddied each sharing commonality of utmost silent. Day ends locating joyed mourning.

    Next fruitful bend apprehends turn unconsciously phone dialling itself haptic thumb tap gotten. Light drenching moonlight stretching confront selves eternal struggle net breaths might then seized watching if there were any all eyes peeled upon something different however. Sat watching however. However stretched the plate was it crawled empty. It stood that after all. After all the self scrutiny Jesus was fed at least. Hunger death provokes happiness. Simply must. Full bellies lack unsheathed sky possessing sitting brain full purses current drain; plate outstretched fingerings sky. Intoxicated throat pity needing at pitied watching pitiless day close fast workplace ushering night sacs containing bones enclose empty brains housing overfed souls. Tie slackened suitcased strides clanking gravel clop — clop — clop — clop — warping truth towards higher truth as all is truth. Food rent clothes boss fiancé mother siblings friends celebrities obsessions run young man’s head seventy two hermit watches across close nearly far across among overlapping streams exercising breathlessness. Breathlessness curse! Gutters flying stench bowed nostrils impassioned glad accept walking submitted greatness submission. Zero space stating breathe?

    Cold eve scanty glad hermit grey giggles cleaving slivering shivering off heavenscape. Drunk decades watching death alive intoxication living moving picture non fiction dream eternal be spit drip lip visual glee surrendering. Friendly house bank during laughing day. Clank! Wad floats down. Clank! Eyes float down. Clank! Disappointed float vanishes upward excitement throat squeezed reminded vanity though screaming assuage far from place at hundred naira economy drained. Used to retain kingly pay one time. Monarchical Left look right look receding day holds two three four five fat slim groups one plus one numerous answers searching loosing time track working work working lost cursing boss children mom wife wide father tableau life spot placed striving husband chained neck feet hand blood vessels arteries arsehole tongue eye all seeing feeling thinking loving believing walled all side taught ordered expected caught napping death alive death alive death alive scared angry what happens happened happening questions unquestioned questioned unquestionably unquestioned left shod mountainous behold blind blotting light darkness shade reading curbed gaze clawed eyes eyes ice ayes highs left low legged legendary lest leap lost loving lime life limelight looks vertical east west south darkness heart recent gleam gloam joy crow peck flesh unfleshed flattering bleached depreciating self loving hoping wanting needing starving seeing blindly kissing touching unfeeling. Monarchical.

    Before all these he was young Before all these he was old but he was young and he was old at heart reading diving drowning found him so Sitting found him so happily sitting still Clang! Floating descends new note five h Glad hide preposterous. Four days hunger cured by six h sees him stand to kiosk ordering beer with groundnut. Laughing ease transform ease necessary to ease hunger. To think one must think he held dark corner marching maintaining gesture reflex mental choices waking abrupt. Friendly house here friendly house there nowhere every where. Spit opens bottle uncork gulping facilitated breathing agreed beer coolth evaporating aroma mouth mastering watering lip tongue jumping joyous glee. Toast thought ancestral garbage at instant apprehend intoxicated aroma bent coolth rushing throat gurgling Adam apple bitten causing temptations love soothing gurgling twice bottle half emptied relishing gassed belly intensely moon brightness intensified. Friendly house here. Hallucinatory stepping digging moats each traverse gifting war away anger away love away beingness away susceptibility way hunger paves drunken belly appreciates. One plate adventure one may sing. Roadside. Sit. Legged crossed opened dally minutely chooses legged cross more emotion summoning strategy best survival way. Singing soothes evening hearing;

    Harmattan rises down every day

    In hot cold heat and happy day (fifty naira)

    Cold heat and happy say every way

    Harmattan brings cold biting toes and souls

    Cold heat they say is frost

    But me I say is solid gold

    As the moon shines moon shine gives me know

    And I walk where I walk toe to toe

    With bare feet (one thousand naira)

    Tell me the joy of singing happily

    The Friday night tells all they must feel

    This Friday night with dance we must see:

    Gets up picks notes pocketing starts dances banging plate onlookers glance crossing avoiding walking striding lengths coordinate of him Memories of joy joyful than joy this whipped horse whips horse parity horse weeping tears of joy breeze sweeping neighbour tongue five hundred dropped dust dropped songless dance drops pants opening genitalia former kiosk possesses sachet gin genes beer genes cigarettes genes groundnuts lastly genes sweet ground nut heals being chest and hearts that fasting men sweating absolution within each step Point of despair avoided such men walk toward backward content forward stretch eye peeled Kerouac way magical rebel submission nature requests;

    Corners again. New spot which pristine bliss stronger wields. Strong. Silence lost boom song crawl upward hearing pathethics bliss tremendous blood cough death chucks all at once beyond moonlight anger moonlight hate moonlight debauch spoiled through play within walls shielding moonlight gaze moonlight hate hoping by shooting rays streaking face arrive crush entire place.

    Speckled rocks haphazard necklaced skyward scintilla:

PS;

    Goes stupor slumbering — chilly breeze freezing broken feet gangrene refuses eating in one glance — dance; no more; never more! Hiccups occur intermittently on the sly time progressing shooting wind clenched bottle solidifies icily commandeering pilot gush ground forces mind plummets dreaming aurorean roaring sky crumpling unfurling crumpling unfurling myriad graduations mortarboards excited eating fuming mist hazy beaming fork plate knife copious ingesting crossing river channels following day blesses peacefully — Friendly ouse firing joy laughter ease bliss kindness camaraderie deluges meals meatless plant filled beer copious whiskey bibulous biblical holy portents popping neural points each lighting where new dawn of time: big? Bang!

A man is not as strong as you think. A man is not as strong-willed as you think. A man is not as rugged as you think. I would know because people had told me how stubborn and difficult Ibekwe could be, and so they are surprised that I’m able to live with him, despite having had two children with another man, despite not being a fresh leaf.

They said I must have gone somewhere and got some charms with which I held him down, na njipia. You know that sort of stories portrayed in Nollywood movies in the early 2000s, stories of wives or girlfriends holding their partners with charms collected from powerful dibias. I think we Nigerians have consumed so much of those movies that we now think that every successful marriage must be dependent on charms. They said there must be something I did, or I’m doing, that has made it possible for us to live together.

My first husband died of motor accident, God bless his soul, and it wasn’t up to a year before I met Ibekwe. What do you suppose a woman should do? Ibekwe had never married before, but according to the stories I’ve heard, he had cast off some girlfriends, and when he saw me, I was the one he chose to marry. His family were enraged when he took me to them. “Of all women to marry, Ibekwe, you chose a widow with two children. What has come over you?” they asked.

They gave me odd stares which did not really bother me. I knew too well that I wasn’t forcing myself on anybody. I was on my own when Ibekwe came asking to marry me. I had not expected to remarry too soon, but I was a woman. When I saw how genuine he was, how honest he was, how loving he was, and how sexy he was, I decided to accept his proposal. Ibekwe is the sexiest man I ever met. I don’t know if people of today actually use sexy to describe a man, but permit me to use it here, biko. I hope he wouldn’t read this, that I’m calling him sexy. That man is also a reader.

Ibekwe’s people were enraged because Ibekwe should marry a fresh leaf, ọnụ-ugu, not someone who had been used by another man. Ibekwe insisted I was the one he would marry. It was me or no other person. Ibekwe loved me. He knew I had two kids. He knew I had married before. He even knew my husband when he was alive. He heard about the news of his death in a motor accident, but Ibekwe chose to marry me, befuddling many connoisseurs of what a proper wife should be for a man who had not married before. I had mourned my dead husband for eleven months before I met Ibekwe in the new supermarket in town. I had gone to get some bread for I and my children when he walked up to me to help. He asked for my phone number and I gave it to him. He was handsome and charming. There was a soothing effect that his eyes gave.

 When he called in the evening I didn’t hesitate to tell him that I was a widow with two kids. I wasn’t ready for any wahala. I wanted to have peace within myself. I wanted to be truthful so that I would be able to sleep in the nights, so that I wouldn’t be worried about covering up lies. I told him my truth, and we started dating. When I went to bed in the night I slept peacefully, knowing fully well that I wasn’t deceiving anyone. I wasn’t lying to anyone. I was surprised that he knew my dead husband. He was a bit popular in Aba, an upcoming singer who would later die in a motor accident on his way to perform in a function in Lagos. “He was the one who performed on my elder brother’s wedding ceremony some years ago. Emenike was his name,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Emenike was his name. Emenike Onyeudo.”

That night, after we talked, I cried for a few minutes, because we talked about Emenike in the past tense: was.

.

A man is not difficult to love and please when the man knows your spirit and soul. I’m Ibekwe’s fresh leaf. I’m the perfect ọnụ ugu for him, because we are still living together after a couple of years, because Ibekwe’s love for me is out of this world, because the connoisseurs of what a perfect marriage should entail are not truthful.

Author’s Note:

Among the Igbo people of Nigeria, a fresh leaf or ọnụ ugu is a young woman who had never been married before, and who is probably a virgin.

Isaac Dominion Aju lives in Nigeria where he works as a fashion designer. His literary works encompasses poetry, essays and fiction. He has appeared in Poetry X Hunger, Kalahari Review, Flapper Press, Steel Jackdaw magazine, and Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

ZULFIYAKHANIM

Uzbek women’s,

Nomusi and arysi

Of patience and perseverance,

Without an infinite ocean

Your life path is original,

Is one fiction book

Darkness dims light,

Exclamation to light

Saras of poets

Poems excellent barisi

Elegant as a spring flower

We-chun dear, dear

Awards and orders

Established in this

Zulfiyakhanim daughter

I’ll be on a fast day.

Open to science hand

Hold on to us hand

To Uzbek women

You showed the great way.

Maftuna Rustamova of the Bukhara region, Jondor district, Rabot village, 30th secondary school pupil

PSYCHOLOGICAL APPROACHES IN CHILDREN’S EDUCATION

Scientific article 

Author: Aytuvova Xurshida 

Emile: ( aytuvovaxurshida@gmail.com) Annotation 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”

Walking on Embers – A Long Poem

Living in today’s society

Is like walking on embers,

A perpetual burn,

A relentless trial.

No sign of transformation,

No hope for change in the social fabric,

Only a landscape riddled with evils,

Shadowed by devils lurking in every corner.

My fire-walk has persisted through millennia,

Embers scattered in shallow trenches,

A bed of hot coals beneath my feet,

Each step an act of silent defiance.

Sometimes I slow,

Careful to spare my bare skin,

A cautious pause amid the flames.

But slowing isn’t relief;

It’s a false refuge,

For the end of this journey

Still remains distant, obscured by smoke.

I must press on,

Walking still on fire,

Knowing my feet are destined to burn,

Yet unable to cease the walk

Through the inferno of a broken society.

The evils thrive with hidden grace,

Wearing a thousand nameless face.

Devils dine at golden feasts,

While I walk fire, seeking peace.

Sometimes I slow—

Then I run, but speed deceives,

The fire clings like autumn leaves.

No finish line, no cooling stream,

Just endless heat, and broken dream.

This is my journey, forged by time,

A millennial path of soot and grime.

No miracle to lift this curse,

Each step a verse in a burning verse.

Yet still I walk, I do not fall—

Though flames consume, I heed the call.

To walk through fire is to survive,

To burn, and still remain alive.

I continue walking on fire

Not to escape but to remember

Pain proves I was here.

The fire doesn’t chase.

It waits.

It knows I’ll come back.

This is how I earn each breath.

Not with healing,

But with friction.

You think fire screams.

It doesn’t.

It hums, like a neon sign in a forgotten alley.

I walk not because I’m brave.

I walk because stillness would be worse.

You’d think I’d get used to it,

This burning

But every step is a fresh confession.

I don’t want rescue.

I want to feel the edge.

To remember that pain is proof,

That I’m still awake.

I walk

In the silence we’ve built

The kind that hums beneath electric lights

And flickers

Between headlines and sighs.

There are no gods here.

No miracles.

Only buildings that lean like tired elders,

Built from ash,

Still pretending to be stone.

And so I walk.

Sometimes slowly,

Because the pain demands attention,

Each step a sermon,

Each burn a truth I never asked for.

Other times,

I run.

But the fire follows.

It clings

Like stories we tell ourselves

To sleep at night.

There is no finish line.

No cool stream waiting beyond the bend.

Just more heat.

Just more sky.

Just more walking.

This is what it means

To live with eyes open.

To know there is no rescue.

To choose the fire anyway.

I do not walk for glory.

I do not walk to be healed.

I walk

Because to stop

Would be to forget

That I was ever alive.

_____________

Light in the Darkness

By Nasir Aijaz

One day, there will be light in the darkness,

A dawn to break this endless night.

Though shadows stretch without a mercy,

I walk alone, yet hold on tight.

A tunnel deep, so cold and hollow,

No stars above, no signs ahead,

Yet every step, though faint and faltered,

Is guided by the hope I’ve fed.

The walls may whisper doubt and sorrow,

The silence press upon my chest,

But still I move, with dreams unbroken,

A quiet fire within my breast.

No map, no voice, no hand to lead me,

No promise written in the sky,

And yet, I trust the dark is fleeting,

And light will come — by and by.

For faith is not in what we witness,

But in what we choose to see:

A distant spark, a gleam of purpose,

A truth that sets the spirit free.

One day, there will be light in the darkness,

And all this pain will turn to peace.

I’ll step into that warm horizon—

And find the place where burdens cease.

_________________

Introduction

Nasir Aijaz, based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh province of Pakistan, is a senior award-winning and Gold Medalist journalist having served in the field of journalism for half a century in senior positions like editor and managing editor. He also worked as a TV Anchor for over a decade and conducted some 400 programs besides appearing as analyst in several current affairs programs on TV and Radio channels. He is the award-winning author of ten books on history, language, literature, travelogue, translations from English literature, and biography. One of his books, a translation of poetry of an Egyptian poet, has been published in Cairo.  About a dozen other books are unpublished.

Besides, he has written over 500 articles in English, Urdu and Sindhi, the native language of Sindh. He is editor of Sindh Courier, an online magazine and represents The AsiaN, an online news service of South Korea with regular contribution for eleven years. Dozens of his articles have been published in South Korea while many of his articles have also been translated in Arabic and Korean languages. Some of his English articles were published in Singapore and India and Nigeria. He writes poetry in his native language Sindhi as well as in English. Some of his poems have been translated in Hindi, Bengali, Tamil, and Malayalam, Albanian, Italian, Greek, Arabic and some other languages published in Egypt, Abu Dhabi, Iraq, Bangladesh, India, Kosovo, USA, Tajikistan, Greece, Italy, Germany, and some other countries. He has visited some ten Asian countries and attended international seminars. He was adjudged one of the Top 20 journalists of Asia by a Philippines-based magazine. He has received several appreciation certificates from international organizations for his literary services.