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Posts Tagged ‘Weymouth’

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A sampling of winning poems by Sebastian Gyovai, Liz Maceda, 
Sasha Smith,  Akshita Gupta, Sophie Lankarani
May 16, 2026 at Weymouth Center
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An Immigrant’s View
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America, can I ring the Taco Bell?
America, my boots are giving me blisters.
America, do buffalos really have wings?
America, I need water, my throat is dry.
America, my phone says it’s an Apple, but it tastes like metal.
America, why are there witches and zombies at my door?
America, can Red Bull give me wings so I can fly back to my country?
America, who is All State and why are their hands so big?
America, can you dry the tears in my eyes?
America, the Capital One wants to see my wallet,
but America, there’s not much to see.
America, give me a home.
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Sebastian Gyovai
First Place, Travis Tuck Jordan Award. Sebastian is a 5th grader at The Raleigh School, Raleigh, NC.
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Becoming
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I am learning the language of mirrors,
How to look at myself without asking permission to exist,
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The hallway light flickers, and for a second
I am made of seconds, I am everything people say I am.
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But shadows move when the light changes.
So do I.
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I carry questions in my pockets, folded like notes I never pass.
Who am I when no one is watching?
Who will I be when I stop pretending?
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Some days, I speak in whispers.
Other days, my silence is louder
than the room I walk into.
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I am becoming
Someone who takes up space.
Someone who doesn’t apologize for the shape of their voice.
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One day,
I will step out of the echo of others’ words
and answer with my own.
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Liz Maceda
Second Place, Mary Chilton Award. Liz is a 9th grader at Carrboro High School, Carrboro, NC.
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Math
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I tire of this boring math
Of which to me seems really hath
No purpose nor beauty in my life
Yet fills long hours with strife
 . 
But when I try to advocate
They say “you’ll need this to create
The future of which you dream”
It only makes me want to scream
 . 
I dream not of complex equations
Nor of mathematical vocations
Though you may call it frivolity
I prefer an essay to an inequality
 . 
Long have I done well in school
It seems to me it should be cool
If I don’t take a little break
I’ll throw this laptop in a lake
 . 
A grade is just a useless number
Worry about trees being cut for lumber
I should think it’s more relevant
To learn how to save the elephant
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Sasha Smith
Honorable Mention, Mary Chilton Award. Sasha is an 8th graders at R.D. and Euzelle Smith Middle School, Chapel Hill, NC.
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Blue Mother
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She glows in the rising sun
Her waves crashing down
Cradling her children
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No matter how big or small
She holds them all
Close to her heart
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But when the blue is hidden
Behind all the trash
It gives me pause
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Seeing the life
The beauty
Slowly drain from her
 . 
All the death and blackness
Surrounding her
Breaks something in my heart
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But we can change
We can be good
We can show her the beauty of us
 . 
We can save the life
Save us
Save our mother
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And I know
When we choose this
The Blue Mother will forgive us all
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Akshita Gupta
Third Place, Joan Scott Memorial Environment Award. Kash is an 8th grader at Young Writers’ Institute, Cary, NC.
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Dear Iran After Wolpe
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Even though I only once traced your streets with my own feet,
you wandered into my dreams anyway,
sliding in through my grandmother’s stories,
drifting out of the steam of her afternoon tea, searching for a place to land.
You slipped in from the clatter of spoons
against crystal tea glasses,
from the rustle of pistachios in a bowl,
from the smell of warm barbari bread.
You crawled across the living room rug
with its deep red blossoms, and settled in the hollow of my throat
like an unfinished sentence.
I thought you were gold, Tehran,
and pomegranate-red, bursting with juice,
spice merchants crushing saffron threads between their fingertips,
the air thick with sumac and smoke
and the hum of bargaining voices.
I dream of you, Tehran, I dream
every night with the ache of someone trying to read
a language she was never taught.
I search for you in the slope of my nose, the olive of my skin.
But I cannot come to you.
You stay sealed behind headlines and rumors,
across news screens and phone calls,
behind the constant warning, “Not now. It’s not safe.”
And so you live inside me instead
a place I carry like a hidden heirloom
glimmering in the dark.
A city I cannot visit but that pulls at me anyway, calling my name
like a prayer in a language I don’t understand
but somehow already know.
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Sophie Lankarani
First Place, The Sherry Pruitt Award. Sophie is a Senior at The Asheville School, Asheville, NC
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After the NC Poetry Society contestants read their winning poems, members of The Poetic Justice League shared readings by special request. These student poets from Carrboro High School are led by their creative writing instructor Raquel Harris. The flow of inspiration they bring is electric!
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Gemella Marey

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Dil Singh

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Ever Harris

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Naomi Hirsch

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Isabel “Liz” Carty

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The North Carolina Poetry Society conducts five contest for students each year. The submission period opens on November 1, with a deadline of January 31. Winners are invited to attend and read their poem at Sam Ragan Awards Day at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities (Southern Pines) in May. Check HERE for guidelines and details.
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Winning poems are published in the anthology Pinesong. If you would like to purchase a copy ($10), or if you are a NCPS member and would like to request your complimentary copy, please contact Membership Vice President Joan Barasovska: msjoan9@gmail.com.

The NCPS Student Contests are:

The Travis Tuck Jordan Award for students in Grades 3 – 5.

Endowed by Dorothy and Oscar Pederson
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The Joan Scott Memorial Award for poems about the environment, students in Grades 5 – 9.
Endowed by contributions in memory of Joan Scott and by the Board of the NC Poetry Society.
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The Mary Chilton Award for students in Grades 6 – 9.
Sponsored by Tori Reynolds
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The Sherry Pruitt Award for students in Grades 10 – 12
Endowed by Gail Peck
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The Undergraduate Award for students attending a North Carolina college or university or whose parents or guardians live in the state of North Carolina .
Endowed by the Judith C. Beale Bequest.
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And THANK YOU especially to all the teachers and parents who encourage these young poets to continue to contemplate and create!
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Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:
. . . . . every Friday I present one or two poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;
. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.
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If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:
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COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
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– Bill
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[with poems by Ana Pugatch, David Poston, Maureen Sherbondy, Joan Leotta]

The original Constitution of the North Carolina Poetry Society stated these objectives: to foster the writing of poetry; to bring together in meetings of mutual interest and fellowship the poets of North Carolina; to encourage the study, writing, and publication of poetry; and to develop a public taste for the reading and appreciation of poetry. These tenets still inspire the mission of NCPS. During the second decade of the twenty-first century that mission has expanded, metamorphosed, and grown wings.

On September 17, 2022, the NC Poetry Society gathered at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities for a gala celebration of our 90th Anniversary. This was the first meeting in person since the spread of COVID19 two and a half years earlier. After dozens of virtual workshops, poetry readings, Zoom programs, and online open mics, our faces had somehow remained familiar but we had come to know many new faces as well. When we walked into the Boyd House in Southern Pines the greetings were ecstatic, the hugs manifold, and behind the masks were face-splitting smiles. Joy overwhelming!

And isn’t this the essential nucleus of the mission of NCPS? Oh yes, we thrive on the unexpected metaphor, the well-honed line, the expressive reading. Poetry, though, is more than craft. It is the art and magic of connecting, the door that opens shared experience, a key to community. As we share poetry we share our self. Suddenly there are two of us walking this journey of humanness, two to delve its depths, two to breach its heights. Wherever poets and lovers of poetry gather, wherever a hard and beautiful and true word is spoken, there is joy.

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The Lena M. Shull Poetry Manuscript Contest was established in 2013. The Poetry Council of NC disbanded and donated its residual assets to NCPS to endow an annual full length poetry manuscript contest named for Lena Shull, the founder of PCNC. NCPS publishes the winning manuscript; the author receives fifty copies, a monetary award, and featured readings. The inaugural prize was awarded to Becky Gould Gibson for her book Heading Home. The 2022 winner is Ana Pugatch for Seven Years in Asia. Finalists are David Poston for Letting Go and Maureen Sherbondy for The Body Remembers.

❦ ❦ ❦

Dissolution

You’ve come to a place that is always raining. The silence: a flood.
At five a.m., the group stands like still poplars outside
the monastery. The previous night, your white uniform had blown
from the laundry line into the dirt and the smell of earth never leaves you.

She tells you about how she cut class to go sit on the toilet,
contemplating ways to end her life. “I knew then that I had to do something,”
the monastic explains. “That something needed to change.” Your head is shaved,
each strand an earthly attachment; when you sweep up

the pile of sunlight you don’t feel any lighter. The poplars paint
their characters and you’re told to stop smiling. On Mt. Wutai, the prayer flags
flutter furiously. There’s never enough rice and your body burns
through itself; those flags are a fitful hunger. At night,

you don’t bother turning over when water drips from cracked
plaster onto your forehead and you begin to wonder
why do lay people come here—why did you come here—and has your pride
become a fist—does dukkha melt in summer snow—

You share a room with a stranger. The pilgrim’s back is hunched, her eyes
a brilliant black. “N duō dà le?” you ask. She thinks she’s eighty but can’t be sure.
You shit in a hole and shower alongside her, your frame nearly twice
her size. She doesn’t care you’re a giant or that it’s your birthday.

The mountain is chilly in July. When you give a monk your WeChat, he sends
a pixelated lotus; you reply with thank you hands. The monastics’ robes are flecks
of crimson. You can sense the five flat peaks, the thousands of vertical pines. Your skin
is so damp you become Wutai, and the well of your anger dissolves into rain.

Ana Pugatch
from Seven Years in Asia, winner of the 2022 Lena Shull Contest of the North Carolina Poetry Society. Dissolution first appeared in The Poet’s Billow and won their 2020 Atlantis Award.

Ana lives in Raleigh, NC, with her husband and son. She has taught English in China and Thailand while studying Buddhism. Ana received her MFA from George Mason University, where she was awarded the ’20-’21 Poetry Heritage Fellowship.

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Something Beautiful

Last month,
as the Fourth of July barrage
dissolved into the night
and people around me
gathered camp chairs and blankets
for the slog through everyone’s trash
back to their cars,
I stood there in the dark
waiting for
one more
bright flowering
I knew
would never come.

Now, lying alone
just before dawn
waiting for the Perseids
to flare across
the edge of sight
as the sky begins to pale
behind a rumple of mist
where the dark lake waits,
I shouldn’t worry about
which faint streaking
will be the last.

I’m remembering
my ninety-year-old father
bursting into laughter
at the Dairy Queen
as he ate a banana split,
and what was so funny to him
was the sudden thought-
he said this-
that it might be
the last one he ever ate,
and what could I do
but laugh with him
and remember later
that he was right?

David Poston
from the manuscript Letting Go, finalist for the 2022 Lena Shull Poetry Award.

David Poston lives with his wife Bee in Gastonia, NC, and is a frequent book reviewer for Pedestal Magazine and a co-editor of Kakalak. He has published three poetry collections, including Postmodern Bourgeois Poetaster Blues, winner of the 2007 Randall Jarrell/Harperprints Competition.

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Cousins I Never Met

Fire burns down the entire forest
but still one flower thrives. The moon’s
silhouette against the sky reminds me
yes, we are still alive. We ran and walked
through yesterday’s parade. You thought
the kite you ran with on the sand could
fly up to the night-imprisoned moon. My cousins, too,
(all gone too soon) watched this same light
in Germany as night-time, day-time prisoners in
rooms fit for two or three, not fifty.

Two years ago we let go of white balloons
at the newborn’s funeral. Five days
he lived. Son, nephew, brother. Five days. We looked up
until white globes blurred into white clouds.
Devoured. We throw rocks at death both now
and then. Still, death stays with you and me hours,
months, through years of lingering. Remember

painting the German Shepherd thick
with tomato juice to release the stink.
Oh, that stink, it lingers. Oh, this scent
of death too. Stink of burning flesh,
I have heard about it, read about it.
Lampshade flesh, they whisper in the halls.

Now walk with me inside
the burned-down forest, take in the sweet
perfume of one flower reaching up
to the sun and moon. My relatives made it
through until the final hours and then
and then. Auschwitz, final hour. The end
when release could be tasted, sulphur burning
on his defeated tongue. Fuhrer fury. The end arrived
when release could be swallowed from the air
so close, and yet. Their blood, our blood waters
burnt soil. We plant new seeds. We march forward.

Maureen Sherbondy
first appeared in Connotation Press

Maureen lives in Durham, NC, with her husband Barry Peters and her cat Lola, and teaches at Alamance Community College. She has published eleven poetry collections, most recently Lines in Opposition.

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No gathering of poets at Weymouth Center would be complete without a workshop. for the afternoon program Joan Leotta presented The Art of Poetic Storytelling, exploring how verse and narrative intersect. She used the metaphor of the moon’s phases to convey the various forms narrative may take, minimal to whole, partial to complete. One of her own poems illustrates, as Joan says, “an example of a crescent moon–only part of the story arc present, a slim piece, the rest filled in by the reader/listener:”

an owl continually questions
my identity
as I watch the stars

[first appeared in haikuniverse]

Joan also introduced her workshop with this insightful observation she solicited from Joseph Bathanti, Seventh NC Poet Laureate 2012-2014, for just this occasion:

“I fancy myself, essentially, a narrative poet, one that relies a good bit on what I call reimagined autobiography – though not all of my poems are narrative or autobiographical. I’m also a novelist, so I’m always preoccupied with story and I also think it’s important that a poem be accessible, rather than a coded conversation a poet has with him/her/their self that only the poet understands. Strong narrative poems tell stories through utilizing classic conventions of fiction such as dialogue, plot, conflict, characterization, setting/place, etc., while still relying heavily on key elements of poetry such as compressed, often impressionistic, language; rhythm; stylized line and stanza breaks; and attention to sound. They balance the image-charged voltage of poetry with traditionally discursive narrative strategies of fiction and creative nonfiction, focusing on
the occasion of the poem, and the dramatic situation that inspired it.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Joseph Bathanti

Joan is a Pittsburgh native who now lives in Calabash, NC. In addition to poetry she has written novels and non-fiction food and travel guides. Her poetry collection Feathers on Stone is forthcoming in 2023 from Mainstreet Rag Publishing. Besides teaching writing and performing, Joan is also herself a performer and story teller.

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The Randall Jarrell Poetry Competition is sponsored by the North Carolina Writers’ Network; winners are invited to read at the fall NCPS meeting and this year are part of the 90th Anniversary celebrations. Their poems will be published in storySouth and we hope to present the poems here at a future date:
+++++ Winner – John Haugh: Consider the Word Pursuit on the Winter Solstice
+++++ Runner-up – Aruna Gurumurthy: Madras
+++++ Honorable Mention – Jeff Miles, Vivian Bikulege

❦ ❦ ❦

THANK YOU to so many who made this North Carolina Poetry Society 90th Anniversary gathering not only possible but truly worthy of the banner, Infusing Ceremony with Celebration: Poetry with Light, Soul, and Sound: Lynda Rush-Myers, for a year of planning and countless hours of preparation and presentation; Celestine Davis, ever-present ever-encouraging ever keeping the wheels on the bus; Regina Garcia, heart and soul and thrilling Tribute introductions, and Romeo Garcia making sure we all got lunch; the entire NCPS Board of Directors, setting up, hanging signs, welcoming and greeting, picking up the trash; and special thanks to the staff of Weymouth Center and Executive Director Katie Wyatt, we/you couldn’t do it without you/us.

 

LAST WEEK: additional NCPS 90th Anniversary celebrations with poems by Brockman-Campbell Book Award winner Kim O’Connor and finalists AE Hines and Cheryl Wilder, plus Susan Laughter Meyers Fellowship in Poetry winner Yvette R. Murray.

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Portions adapted from The North Carolina Poetry Society: Part 5 – 2012-2022, Ninety Years of Creativity, Challenge, and Change; compiled and composed by Bill Griffin with special collaborator David Radavich; © 2022 The North Carolina Poetry Society.

Doughton Park Tree 2021-03-23

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[with two poems by Lenard D. Moore]

Mockingbird knows both of Blue Jay’s songs: the astringent lament that flings the blue name of the blue Corvid into pathos; the softer plaintive wheedle of him who begs to be thought better of. What does all that conversation signify when it erupts from the beak of the Jay? What meaning has the Mocker usurped, if any meaning at all? Who can listen and understand, and who can answer?

We of different class order family genus species can only speculate why the Mockingbird repeats four times each song he knows, and each song he himself composes, as he hops from the tip of power to the mailbox to the thorn bush and back again and his notes spiral the neighborhood. We are probably safe to bet that Mocker doesn’t care two bits about impressing the Jays. Song as proclamation, song as beacon, song as telegraphy, song as bulwark – let’s just imagine that Mockingbird proclaims music is glory and improvisation is king.

Listen and understand.

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I have known Lenard Moore mainly from his haiku. He points the way to that parallel universe which is only a hairsbreadth from ours and then with observation and pointed brush he opens the door.

I also know Lenard as a teacher and mentor to Carolina writers in many, many different organizations and settings, and particularly I remember a meeting about 10 years ago at Weymouth Center in Southern Pines, NC. While Bill Blackley played blues harmonica, Lenard riffed and bopped with his jazz poetry. Now I’m holding a book that brings it back: The Geography of Jazz, issued in 2020 by Blair as a reprint of a publication by Mountains and Rivers Press in 2018.

Sultry, syncopated, steamy – if you can read this book without bobbing your head and tapping your foot you need a little more sax in your life.

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At the Train Stop

I imagine the quick hand:
Thelonious Monk waves
at red, orange, yellow leaves
from Raleigh to Rocky Mount.
Alone in this seat,
I peer out the half-window
at the rainbow of faces
bent toward this train
that runs to the irresistible Apple,
determine to imagine Monk
glows like Carolina sun
in cloudless blue sky.
I try so hard to picture him
until his specter hunkers
at the ghost piano, foxfire
on concrete platform.
Now I can hear the tune ‘Misterioso’
float on sunlit air.
If notes were visible,
perhaps they would drift crimson,
shimmer like autumn leaves.
A hunch shudders
into evening, a wordless flight.

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Ascension: John Coltrane

I didn’t pick up the tenor
and soprano saxophones
for legendhood.
I wanted only to explore chords
into progression, step into another world
I had to escape anything too strict,
take ‘Giant Steps’ all the way
from Hamlet, North Carolina.
The music shimmered like a lake
inside me and turned blue.
It was kind of spiritual.
I thought of extending the scales.
I wanted to play on and on,
sail as long as the horn could
and eventually come back again
as if I had never left.
It was maybe the only time
I left my body.

both selections from The Geography of Jazz, Lenard D. Moore, Blair Publishing 2020 reprint, © 2018 Lenard D. Moore

More about Lenard D. Moore, his poetry, and haiku.

 

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Afterword: Old Jay still has a few tricks of his own. He can mimic perfectly the three Buteos in his breeding range: Red-tailed, Red-shouldered, and Broad-winged Hawks. Nobody messes with Mr. Blue Jay.


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2020-09-08b Doughton Park Tree

 

 

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