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  • “You Will Remain an Example” by Tal Al-Mallouhi for Day of the Imprisoned Writer

    February 18th, 2011

    You will remain an example

    (To Gandhi)
     
    I will walk with all walking people
    And no
    I will not stand still
    Just to watch the passers-by
     
    This is my homeland
     
    In which
    I have
    A palm tree
    A drop in a cloud
    And a grave to protect me
     
    This is more beautiful
    Than all cities of fog
    And cities which
    Do not recognise me
     
    My master:
    I would like to have power
    Even for one day
    To build the “republic of feelings”.

    You Will Remain an Example is © Tal Al-Mallouhi, imprisoned in Syria (2011-2013, from 2013 to the present her status is categorised as ‘unknown’) translated from the Arabic by Ghias Aljundi.
     

     
     

    “The Writers in Prison Committee of PEN International condemns the five year sentence handed down on 14 February 2011 to blogger, poet and high school student Tal Al-Mallouhi on the charge of “divulging information to a foreign state”. No evidence has been provided for the charge against her, and PEN International believes that Al-Mallouhi is sentenced for her online writings and poems. This violates right to freedom of expression as guaranteed by Article 19 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, to which Syria is a party. PEN calls for her immediate and unconditional release.”

    ALERT

  • A Saturday Woman Poet , Prageeta Sharma.

    February 12th, 2011

    On Rebellion, by Prageeta Sharma.

    (for Katy Lederer)

    “It was not a romantic sentiment , nor self-determined; rather , it was embarrassing.
    My love of spearheading, from introvert to extrovert,
    from cowardice to consequence, from the enjambment to the unspecified dunce.
    It was a sabotage, a reckless moment : a purulent, tawny decree.
    All temptation puzzled me and drew me in.
    I dropped out of a large life,
    I flew over exams, I punched out breakfast teachers with lunch money,
    toiling over the idea of belonging rather than over upward mobility.
    I understood how power flung outward
    into the troves of the cursed ( I felt troubled or cursed all of the time).
    I wasn’t bearing oranges, limes, or even lemons.
    All of it blurred together so that a mere suggestion made by
    an outside force was something to be freely ignored.
    I could nod off, I could misinterpret, it could be reconfigured as a negotiation.
    The fog felt like an aphorism. Never lifting, always dull,
    always an added pull. The tribunal cloud judged below, judged my direction.
    There was lying, conning, faking, elucidating in order to get away with undoing.
    I was interested in preserving yet I can’t tell you if it felt
    sacred or befallen.
     
    Your anxiety might have represented a crushing faith
    or a character assassination, my own or someone else’s.
    Or a lack of grip on reality : the wet rip of the grocery bags
    all of it falling –
    your body on all fours.
    Accumulating soot upon  retrieval.
     
    There were downsides to feeling different so I huddled
    in the corner (not a ball, not rocking). I felt friendless and yet social.
    I felt no aptitude towards refining a skill.
     
    However, words cut my brain into two brains with their precipice
    their demarcations, their incisions (too strong a word).
     
    They held me captive against their edge,
    their influence : I felt like insinuating something delicate or dear.

    Now- I am playing on- trying to pay attention to the collusion that I must
    be playing over
    and over in my mind, and it was my mind,
    it needed me to leave everything outside, on the steps or in the sky,
    to feign exhaustion in order to meet an aberration,
    the one in the corner that felt large and carefree with its
    own vernacular sprawled with whitewash on bricks or floors or that ghastly
    far above that kept me standing very still but perhaps I wasn’t inactive,
    I was just interpreting what had already been an assumed boundary,
    immersed in its insularity and in what stuck to its roundedness.”

    Prageeta Sharma  was born in Framingham, Mass. in 1972. Her parents came from Jaipur. This poem is taken from The Bloodaxe  Book of Contemporary Indian Poets, ed Jeet Thayil. Bloodaxe Books 2008. Reviewed at this link.

  • The Count 2010, VIDA data for publishing women in literary magazines

    February 9th, 2011

    “The TLS is only interested in getting the best reviews of the most important books,” and “while women are heavy readers, we know they are heavy readers of the kind of fiction that is not likely to be reviewed in the pages of the TLS.“ (Peter Stothard, making his own importance)

    So are Newspaper literary supplements and literary magazines not employing women reviewers,editors and /or  critics, or are they just riddled with meddlesome women-misogynists who think that fellating the alpha-male  poet/ fiction writer is a recognition of women’s contribution to the literary arts ?

    At the end of 2010 the editorial and best books lists began to emerge, list after list evinced a paucity of women writers in poetry, in fiction and in the arts. Interestingly,the horizontal media feeds like Twitter and Facebook hardly picked up on the issue of the profound absence of women writers from the 2010 lists.

    Article 1 

    4 Times Square, 20th Floor

    New York, NY 10036

    Dear Editors of the New Yorker,

    “I am writing to express my alarm that this is now the second issue of the NYer in a row where only two (tiny) pieces out of your 76 page magazine are written by women.  The January 3rd, 2011 issue features only a Shouts & Murmurs (Patricia Marx) and a poem (Kimberly Johnson).  Every other major piece—the fiction, the profile, and all the main nonfiction pieces—is written by a man.  Every single critic is a male writer.

    We were already alarmed when we flipped through the Dec 20th & 27th double-issue to find that only one piece (Nancy Franklin) and one poem (Alicia Ostriker) were written by women.  A friend pointed out that Jane Kramer wrote one of the short Talk of the Town segments as well, though it barely placated our sense of outrage that one extra page, totaling three, out of the 148 pages in the magazine, were penned by women.  Again, every critic is a man.  To make matters more depressing, 22 out of the 23 illustrators for the magazine are men.  Seriously!

    Women are not actually a minority group, nor is there a shortage, in the world, of female writers.  The publishing industry is replete with female editors, and it would be too obvious for me to point out to you that the New Yorker masthead has a fair number of female editors in its ranks.  And so we are baffled, outraged, saddened, and a bit depressed that, though some would claim our country’s sexism problem ended in the late 60’s, the most prominent and respected literary magazine in the country can’t find space in its pages for women’s voices in the year 2011.

    I have enclosed the January issue and expect a refund.  You may either extend our subscription by one month, or you can replace this issue with a back issue containing a more equitable ratio of male to female voices. I plan to return every issue that contains fewer than five women writers.  You tend to publish 13 to 15 writers in each issue; 5 women shouldn’t be that hard.”

    A dismayed reader,

    Anne Hays

    • Anne Hays letter to the New Yorker Magazine

    Article 2 : From VIDA , The Count ( December 2010):

    “The truth is, these numbers don’t lie. But that is just the beginning of this story. What, then, are they really telling us? We know women write. We know women read. It’s time to begin asking why the 2010 numbers don’t reflect those facts with any equity. Many have already begun speculating; more articles and groups are pointing out what our findings suggest: the numbers of articles and reviews simply don’t reflect how many women are actually writing. VIDA is here to help shape that discussion. Please tell us about the trends you’ve witnessed in your part of the writing world. Let us know what you think is going on. We’re ready and anxious to hear from you. We’re ready to invest our efforts and energy into the radical notion that women are writers too”

    • Link to ‘the Count’, VIDAWEB

    Article 3 : The Harriet blog, published by Poetry Foundation has taken up the issue , and I am excerpting here:

    “Here at Poetry we were all interested in “The Count” that VIDA recently produced. Interested, but not especially surprised. The count shows—with pretty devastating consistency—that women are under-represented in all of the major literary magazines, including Poetry (though Poetry fares much better than the others).

    This didn’t surprise us because the issues that VIDA are raising have long been of concern to us. The disparity is something I first noticed seven years ago when I commissioned Averill Curdy to write an essay wondering where all the women poetry critics were. Subsequent issues contained responses from well-known women poet-critics of another generation . The aim was to provoke a conversation, first of all, but more importantly to get more women writing in the back pages of the magazine. More recently, senior editor Don Share participated in a roundtable on gender and publishing sponsored by VIDA.”

    Poetry, The Harriet Blog (Poetry Foundation)

    Article 4: Guardian Discussion on the VIDA figure which elicited a quote from Peter Stothard (TLS) :

    “The TLS is only interested in getting the best reviews of the most important books,” and “while women are heavy readers, we know they are heavy readers of the kind of fiction that is not likely to be reviewed in the pages of the TLS.“

  • A Saturday Woman Writer, Mirjam Tuominen.

    February 5th, 2011

     

    Mirjam Touminen.

    Travels

    I.

    ” I came to a land where freedom had been realised or was at least believed to be very close to its full realisation. For the people here the word freedom  could consequently not be applicable to themselves but only to other peoples who had not yet discovered the happiness-making formula that means the realisation of freedom. In this land, therefore, the people talked much and with a strong sympathy for all the people beyond the frontiers of their own land who were not free. It was said that one ought to exert oneself to  the uttermost in order to liberate all the lands and peoples of the earth. On the other hand, it would hardly have been the right thing if it had occurred to some compatriot to longingly, invoke, for example, the concept of freedom in an internal context to himself or any of his fellow-countrymen. To be sure, it was not forbidden by law to use the word freedom in that last-mentioned way, but a universally sanctioned convention in reality liquidated the word from any contexts other (than) external ones.

    Since everything in this land was so new, so thrillingly and inspiringly new,  I became like a child, reborn, receptive and avid for knowledge, and also became involved in teaching in a school. By day and by hour I received proof which confirmed that freedom really was being realised  in this land as in no other. On the way to work, in buses,  trams and underground trains the workers sat studying books which promised them the chance of experiencing freedom completely realised  in their own lifetimes; a mother married to a simple sailor told me with eyes moist from emotion that there was every reason to expect that her son would attain the rank of admiral one day, and everywhere  there was testimony to the fact  that here women were acknowledged as beings equal to men with all their human rights acknowledged; among other things the fact that within the military profession they possessed the rank of captain, major and even colonel.

    In the light of such experiences, the old world I had left behind receded even further into my consciousness, like some primeval night, half-real. Here I had been born anew, here everyone was happy – there was no talk of anything else- and everyone was resolved to save the whole world , against the world’s will if necessary. Everyone lived for the mutual welfare of everyone else. But of course, I could not forget the old world completely, and as is often the case when one tries to repress painful memories, the past returned in my dreams at night.
    .

    And I dreamed that I was trying to invoke the word freedom. That merely to succeed in uttering and adducing freedom on my own inner-melancholy, for example-personal behalf would offer me the most nameless solace and happiness. But I could not utter the word, so strong on the other hand, also in the dream, was my conventional awareness: countless inhibitions made the syllables stick in my throat, until, sobbing with anguish, I reached the point where the four letters:  f,r,e,e – got over the threshold of my consciousness. I knew they were there, but I did not utter them,I did not even think them.
    .

    When I woke up I was soaked through as after the most terrible nightmare.
    .
    And I said to myself that this was not suffering but imagined or pretending suffering. But in this dark night, my repressed primeval consciousness refuted this assertion and said that it is precisely when we tell ourselves that we are only pretending to suffer that we really do suffer, for why acknowledge a suffering about which we can do nothing ? The soul is mortally sick- but the soul’s suffering is always imagination.”

    The short prose Travels , written by Mirjam Tuominen, is from Theme with Variations, published in 1952.

    There are two short poems by Mirjam Tuominen on Poethead, one of which I am excerpting here, with link attached at the base of this post.

    A Poem by Mirjam Touminen.

    The Swallows Fly

    The swallows fly
    high
    in towards bluer sky
    low
    down beneath darkening clouds. 

    from Under the Earth Sank (1954)

    Poems and prose by Mirjam Tuominen from Selected Writings, trans David Mc Duff. Bloodaxe Books 1994

    Two poems by Mirjam Tuominen

     

  • Elizabeth Kate Switaj, a response to Peter Stothard TLS

    February 4th, 2011

    Vida, Women in Literary Arts published a list in 2010 which showed that there is , indeed, a gender-imbalance in literary publication. The figures for 2010 have borne out the VIDA Count. The Guardian Newspaper published those VIDA figures in the  following linked article,

    Research shows male writers still dominate books world (Friday 4 February 2011) ,

    “Statistics compiled by Vida, an American organisation for women in the literary arts, found gender imbalances in every one of the publications cited, including the London Review of Books, the Times Literary Supplement and the New York Review of Books.

    In the UK, the LRB reviewed 68 books by women and 195 by men in 2010, with men taking up 74% of the attention, and 78% of the reviews written by men. Seventy-five per cent of the books reviewed in the TLS were written by men (1,036 compared to 330) with 72% of its reviewers men”

    Peter Stothard‘s response to The Count (2010)  by VIDA was,

    “The TLS is only interested in getting the best reviews of the most important books,” and “while women are heavy readers, we know they are heavy readers of the kind of fiction that is not likely to be reviewed in the pages of the TLS.”

    Not Our Kind, My Dear. (excerpted)

    ” when polished nails touch Ulysses
    Marion Bloom appears on the cover
    corseted and heaving
    over the leather’s top

    between that and her windblown hair,
    No it’s not literary No it’s not No important enough

    for these pages, my dear “

    I do not think there is much to celebrate in terms of our modernism, when old-school type bias and inequality  is quite plainly creeping into our political systems, and our worlds of literature and art. 2010 was an appalling year for  equality at many levels of society. Gladly, 2011 has been thus far better in terms of women writers and that should be reflected by editors in their wee (tiny) lists.

    • Publication Bias via Vida, Women in the Literary Arts
    • Anne Hays letter to the New Yorker Magazine
    • Guardian discussion of the VIDA Count here

    The Switaj poem is here ‘Not Our Kind , My Dear’ a poem by Elizabeth Kate Switaj , in response to Peter Stothard. (Editor of the Times Literary Supplement)


  • The Arts and the Elections, a notice by the National Campaign for the Arts

    February 1st, 2011

    THE ARTS AND THE ELECTIONS

    The election has been called and a new government is imminent.  That means new policies and new priorities – with no guarantees for funding and continued investment in the arts.

    Once again, we must make a case for the arts.  We must:

    • lobby to maintain a full cabinet Minister for Arts
    • promote the role and value of the arts
    • campaign for continued and increased investment in the arts
    • advocate for the provision of appropriate social protection for artists and those who work in the arts.

    Once again, we need your help.  You can help in five simple ways:

    1. ATTEND THE HUSTINGS

    In Dublin the arts spokespersons from all 5 political parties will attend a meeting to outline their respective arts policies and answer your questions. There will be a similar format in Galway with candidates from  Galway East and West constituencies invited to present their local arts policy and answer your questions.

    Come along and make the arts an election issue. It’s important we show politicians the arts matter!
    Monday 14 February

    Dublin: 10.45am – 12.15  Project Arts Centre, Temple Bar

    Galway: 11.00am Radisson Blu Hotel



    If you would like any further information about our activities this year please contact Tania Banotti.  The website will be updated with all relevant information about the campaign by next week.

    Campaign for Arts
    A brief note on arts policy and the 2011 General Election.

    I note that Fine Gael has released a policy document in relation to arts, this is press-released from the National campaign for Arts website, which I am linking here,  beneath this brief excerpt. This link is to the National Campaign for Arts index page . I will add in other political party policy papers if they become available during the election campaign.

    Fine Gael Arts Policy 2010.

    • The arts and culture “will have a seat at the cabinet table” in any future FG government.

    • Commitment to a flagship Literature Centre in a landmark building in Dublin, given the UNESCO City of literature designation and possibly a new arts and film channel.

    • A much greater commitment to the arts in the school curricula & the cultural rights of children as well as core funding for organisations providing arts programming for children

    • As part of 2016 commemoration, a range of new commissions beginning immediately.
    .
    • National Endowment Fund for the Arts to be set up.

    • Arts Council vacancies in future will be in future advertised.

    One hopes that ‘ the seat at the cabinet table ‘will comprise a full portfolio…

    • Document from the NCFA on Arts Policy 
    • Policy doc. of the FG Party.
    • Arts articles on Poethead


  • Two poems by Anne Stevenson.

    January 29th, 2011

    Making Poetry.

    by Anne Stevenson.

    ‘You have to inhabit poetry
    if you want to make it.’
     
    And what’s to ‘inhabit ‘ ?
     
    To be in the habit of, to wear
    words, sitting in the plainest light,
    in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night;
    a feeling bare and frondish is surprising air;
    familiar…rare.
     
    And whats ‘to make’ ?
     
    To be and to become words’ passing
    weather ; to serve a girl on terrible
    terms, embark on voyages over voices,
    evade the ego-hill, the misery-well,
    the siren-hiss of  success, publish,
    success, success, success.
     
    And why inhabit, make, inherit poetry ?
     
    Oh , it’s the shared comedy of the worst
    blessed ;  the sound leading the hand;
    a worldlife running from mind to mind
    through the washed rooms of the simple senses;
    one of those haunted, undefendable, unpoetic
    crosses we have to find. 
     

    from Anne Stevenson , Poems 1955-2005, Publ. Bloodaxe Books.

    Carol of the Birds

    by Anne Stevenson.

     
    Feet that could be clawed, but are not ….
    Arms that might have flown, but did not…
    No-one said, ‘Let there be angels!’ but the birds
     
    whose choirs fling alleluias over the sea,
    Herring gulls, black backs carolling raucoucly
    While cormorants dry their wings on a rocky stable.
     
    Plovers that stoop to sanctify the land
    And scoop small, roundy mangers in the sand,
    Swaddle a saviour each in a speckled shell.
     
    A chaffinchy fife unreeling in the marsh
    Accompanies the tune a solo thrush
    Half sings, half talks in riffs of wordless words,
     
    As hymns flare up from tiny muscled throats,
    Robins and hidden wrens whose shiny notes
    Tinsel the precincts of the winter sun.
     
    What loftier organ than those pipes of beech,
    pillars resounding with the jackdaws’ speech,
    And poplars swayed with light like shaken bells?
     
    Wings that could be hands, but are not…
    Cries that might be pleas yet cannot
    Question or disinvent the stalker’s gun,
     
    Be your own hammerbeam angels of the air
    Before in the maze of space, you disappear,
    Stilled by our dazzling anthrocentric mills.
     


     
    from Anne Stevenson , Poems 1955-2005, Publ. Bloodaxe Books.

  • Protected: An Chearnóg , two poems by C Murray

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  • A Saturday Woman Makar , Liz Lochead.

    January 22nd, 2011
    Poets need not

    be garlanded;
    the poet’s head
    should be innocent of the leaves of the sweet bay tree,
    twisted. All honour goes to poetry.

    And poets need no laurels. Why be lauded
    for the love of trying to nail the disembodied
    image with that one plain word to make it palpable;
    for listening in to silence for the rhythm capable
    of carrying the thought that’s not thought yet?
    The pursuit’s its own reward. So you have to let
    the poem come to voice by footering
    late in the dark at home, by muttering
    syllables of scribbled lines — or what might
    be lines, eventually, if you can get it right.

    And this, perhaps, in public? The daytime train,
    the biro, the back of an envelope, and again
    the fun of the wildgoose chase
    that goes beyond all this fuss.

    Inspiration? Bell rings, penny drops,
    the light-bulb goes on and tops
    the not-good-enough idea that went before?
    No, that’s not how it goes. You write, you score
    it out, you write it in again the same
    but somehow with a different stress. This is a game
    you very seldom win
    and most of your efforts end up in the bin.

    There’s one hunched and gloomy heron
    haunts that nearby stretch of River Kelvin
    and it wouldn’t if there were no fish.
    If it never in all that greyness passing caught a flash,
    a gleam of something, made that quick stab.
    That’s how a poem is after a long nothingness, you grab
    at that anything and this is food to you.
    It comes through, as leaves do.

    All praise to poetry, the way it has
    of attaching itself to a familiar phrase
    in a new way, insisting it be heard and seen.
    Poets need no laurels, surely?
    their poems, when they can make them happen — even rarely —
    crown them with green.

    by Liz Lochhead

    Scotland has a woman makar (Poet Laureate) , announced this week in Guardian Books. England has a woman Laureate in Carol Ann Duffy, though that took some considerable period of time to achieve. The first woman mentioned in connection with the laureateship was indeed Elizabeth Barrett Browning, that  was in jest, and at the time that William Wordsworth died ! In real terms for these women writers it means acknowledgement, and it means that their books are a part of their national fabrics of language, linguistics and thought, this can only be a good thing for the 2011 literary lists, given the scandalous lack of women writers in the 2010 editorial lists. I am adding in here a poem by Liz Lochead , from the Scottish Poetry Library as a small celebration of women and literature this saturday.

    • Scottish Poetry Library.

    “Her poetry collections include Dreaming Frankenstein (Polygon, 1984), True Confessions and New Clichés (Polygon, 1985) Bagpipe Muzak (Penguin, 1991), and The Colour of Black and White: Poems 1984-2003 (Polygon, 2003).

    Her plays include Tartuffe (Polygon, 1986), Mary Queen of Scots Got Her Head Chopped Off (Penguin, 1989) and the Saltire Society Scottish Book of the Year Award-winning Medea (Nick Hern Books, 2000).”

    • The Scottish Poetry Library features Liz Lochead , woman makar.
    • Saturday Women Poets on Poethead


  • A wonderful tale of restoration, Sue Hubbard’s “Eurydice”

    January 18th, 2011

    The Salt Publishing blog has been involved in the Facebook campaign to restore Sue Hubbard’s Eurydice to the London underground spoke this morning at their delight in the poem’s restoration. The poem had been painted over to the sadness of travellers and poets. I will be adding a link in here which carries with it the history of the destruction of the image and it’s restoration to public view. There will also be a link to the Salt Publishing blog at the end of this short post: 18/01/2010

    Ten years ago, as part of the renovation of the South Bank undertaken by Avery Architects, the Arts Council and the BFI commissioned the award-winning poet and art critic Sue Hubbard to write a poem for the underpass that leads from Victory Arch at Waterloo Station to the IMAX cinema. Written in a series of three-lined stepped stanzas the poem was set out so that it could be read whilst walking through the tunnel. Using the metaphor of Eurydice descending into the underworld it aimed to make walkers feel safe. As well as the classical myth, the poem’s imagery makes reference to London’s Thameside history and to the famous Waterloo clock, a meeting point in so many British films.

    As an example of innovative public art, it has been written about in architectural journals and was the subject of a commissioned essay from Sue Hubbard by The Poetry Society, Opening Spaces, written during her residency as The Poetry Society’s only Public Art Poet. It formed the backdrop to a National Film School production will you forget me? (Stephen Bennet) and Lifelines, a Channel 4 drama produced by Carnival films. The poem has also been requested on Radio 4’s Poetry Please. “

     

    Eurydice

     by Sue Hubbard

    I am not afraid as I descend,
    step by step, leaving behind the salt wind
    blowing up the corrugated river,

    the damp city streets, their sodium glare
    of rush-hour headlights pitted with pearls of rain;
     for my eyes still reflect the half remembered moon.

    Already your face recedes beneath the station clock,
    a damp smudge among the shadows
    mirrored in the train’s wet glass,

    will you forget me? Steel tracks lead you out
    past cranes and crematoria,
    boat yards and bike sheds, ruby shards

    of roman glass and wolf-bone mummified in mud,
    the rows of curtained windows like eyelids
    heavy with sleep, to the city’s green edge.

    Now I stop my ears with wax, hold fast
    the memory of the song you once whispered in my ear.
    Its echoes tangle like briars in my thick hair.

    You turned to look.
    Seconds fly past like birds.
    My hands grow cold. I am ice and cloud.

    This path unravels.
    Deep in hidden rooms filled with dust
    and sour night-breath the lost city is sleeping.

    Above the hurt sky is weeping,
    soaked nightingales have ceased to sing.
    Dusk has come early. I am drowning in blue.

    I dream of a green garden
    where the sun feathers my face
    like your once eager kiss.

    Soon, soon I will climb
    from this blackened earth
    into the diffident light. 

    Eurydice , by Sue Hubbard ,  Ghost Station , publ. Salt.

    Ghost Station from Salt Publishing Blog
    Restoration of Eurydice announced after a Facebook Campaign
    Guardian Books Blog archive

    EDIT : Guardian report at 18.57pm today :

    “A mural poem composed to comfort travellers descending into one of Britain’s most dismal underworlds is being recreated after more than 1,000 people who mourned its destruction paid to have it restored.

    The poem, Eurydice, is one of the longest pieces of public art in the capital. It was inscribed along a concrete tunnel connecting Waterloo station with the Imax cinema and the South Bank 10 years ago.

    It was destroyed last autumn – a fortnight after Time Out magazine listed it as one of London’s best pieces of secret art – when contractors for Network Rail painted over it, claiming to be cleaning up the tunnel.”

     

    Guardian link on Sue Hubbard’s poem

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