Robert Bly

Robert Bly (1926): “a man in love with the setting stars”


The Night Abraham Called to the Stars


Do you remember the night Abraham first saw
The stars? He cried to Saturn: "You are my Lord!"
How happy he was! When he saw the Dawn Star,

He cried, ""You are my Lord!" How destroyed he was
When he watched them set. Friends, he is like us:
We take as our Lord the stars that go down.

We are faithful companions to the unfaithful stars.
We are diggers, like badgers; we love to feel
The dirt flying out from behind our back claws.

And no one can convince us that mud is not
Beautiful. It is our badger soul that thinks so.
We are ready to spend the rest of our life

Walking with muddy shoes in the wet fields.
We resemble exiles in the kingdom of the serpent.
We stand in the onion fields looking up at the night.

My heart is a calm potato by day, and a weeping
Abandoned woman by night. Friend, tell me what to do,
Since I am a man in love with the setting stars.



Bly is the quintessential poet: he is unboxable. No frame has suited him throughout his long life but his own. And his own frame extends between America and the stars. If you really want to understand the man in his evolution and his unordinariness, you have to read his April 2000 interview [hyperlink:] published in The Paris Review (the excerpts below are reprinted with permission).


The Poetry Foundation enlists the following functions in Bly’s Career section: poet, translator, editor, and conductor of writing workshops. What it misses are Bly’s anti-war work and his workshops for men. In 1966, Bly co-founded American writers Against the Vietnam War and led much of the opposition among writers to that war. When he won the 1967 National Book Award for the Light Around the Body, he contributed the prize money to the Resistance. In 1979, Bly began, with James Hillman and Michael Meade, a series of workshops for men, in which participants were encouraged to reclaim their male traits and to express their severely repressed feelings through poetry, stories, and other rites. The workshops led to the character of Iron John, based on a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm. Iron John is an archetype that could help men connect with their psyches. Iron John eventually became a book by the same name, Iron John: A Book about Men (1990).


            Bly was born in western Minnesota and grew up in a community dominated by Norwegian immigrant farmers and their culture. After two years in the Navy, he attended St. Olaf College in Minnesota before transferring to Harvard where he associated with other graduates who went on to make their name as writers, including Donald Hall, Adrienne Rich, John Ashbery, John Hawkes, George Plimpton, and Kenneth Koch. After his graduation in 1950, Bly spent some time in New York City before studying for two years at the University of Iowa Writers Workshop, along with W. D. Snodgrass and Donald Justice.


How did this time in New York end?

Robert Bly: It ended when MacLeish, whom I visited in Cambridge, sent me on a wild goose chase to Iowa to pick up some money the Rockefeller Foundation had put up for writers. He noticed that I was a little gaunt, and he said, "I'll put you up for this grant. Just find another older writer to recommend you and it's done." I bought a car for $65 and drove west, stopping in Bloomington to hear John Crowe Ransom lecture. He was fantastic. I sent him some poems, and found his reply the other day:


Dear Mr. Bly,

Thank you for sending these poems to me. Some of them I like very much. I think you could publish them almost anywhere. Many of them are fine.

Yours sincerely,
John Crowe Ransom


It's remarkable that he would write to me at all.


Meanwhile, the other writer had forgotten to send his recommendation; and so, when I got to Iowa City, the grant was gone. I remember driving into Iowa City for the first time, seeing those low, nondescript buildings, and saying, "What kind of country is this when a great poet like Robert Lowell has to teach in a place that looks like this?" I must have expected buildings like the British Parliament Houses, or the Louvre.


I asked for a job teaching, and they said if I joined the Writer's Workshop I could have a job, though I had no qualifications. I taught one course of Freshman English and one called "Greeks and the Bible." Teaching was a sudden immersion in the hot water of sociability! I was so afraid, it took me two weeks to be able to stand up behind my desk. I loved teaching, but got too involved in the student's lives. I wrote very few poems that year. I was able to recover enough received language to teach, but the language for poetry was still gone.


Interviewer: Wasn't John Berryman teaching there that year?

Robert Bly: Yes, he was. There was always a little drinking trouble around him. I was buying toothpaste one morning, and the drugstore radio said that the police had picked up John trying to break into his own apartment the night before. This was a wholesome State University. I said, "There goes John." He remarked that there was only one man in the country who would understand what had happened without asking a single question; and he called Allen Tate in Minneapolis. Allen said, "Come to Minneapolis, John." So John taught for years in the Humanities Department at the University of Minnesota, and was marvelous. Phil Levine wrote an essay called "Mine Own John Berryman" in his book called The Bread of Time, about Berryman's teaching at Iowa, making clear the high voltage of his seminars. It's the best essay ever written on a teacher-poet.


Interviewer: How long were you at Iowa?

Robert Bly: I was there a year. In 1955 I married Carol Bly, whom I had known at Harvard and in New York. We moved to an old farm my father had saved for me. We stayed there 25 years. It was a half-mile from the one I grew up on. I still hadn't shed my isolation; the nearness to my parents was difficult, as was the lack of work. I spent whole days sitting out in the fields. But there was peace. I had still had a great love of silence. I collected the poems I wrote there in Silence in the Snowy Fields, which came out in 1962. I like that book, and I never would have written a book that interesting if I had not moved back to the country where I was a child.


In 1956, Bly traveled on a Fulbright grant to Norway, where he translated Norwegian poetry into English. While in Norway, Bly discovered the work of many poets who would influence him greatly, including Neruda, Vallejo, and Gunnar Ekeloef. Back in Minnesota, he took up residence on a farm with his wife, the short story writer Carol Bly, and their children. Here he founded his literary magazine and publishing house, The Fifties (which later changed its name to Sixties, Seventies, etc.), as a forum for translated poetry.


In 1979, Bly and Carol Bly divorced, an event that precipitated a serious crisis of the soul for the poet. In Bly’s own words, “Ruth Counsell entered my life in 1972. Carol Bly and I agreed to divorce in 1979, and Ruth Counsell and I were married the next year.”


Though after the 1980s Bly has perhaps become most identified as the founder of the men’s movement, he continued to publish poetry and translations. Imitating his friend William Stafford, Bly wrote a poem every morning, a collection which became Morning Poems (1998), perhaps the best Robert Bly has written. His selected poems Eating the Honey of Words (1999) was also widely praised. Recent collections include The Urge to Travel Long Distances (2005) and the collection of ghazals My Sentence was a Thousand Years of Joy (2005).


Call and Answer


Tell me why it is we don’t lift our voices these days
And cry over what is happening. Have you noticed
The plans are made for Iraq and the ice cap is melting?

I say to myself: “Go on, cry. What’s the sense
Of being an adult and having no voice? Cry out!
See who will answer! This is Call and Answer!”

We will have to call especially loud to reach
Our angels, who are hard of hearing; they are hiding
In the jugs of silence filled during our wars.

Have we agreed to so many wars that we can’t
Escape from silence? If we don’t lift our voices, we allow
Others (who are ourselves) to rob the house.

How come we’ve listened to the great criers—Neruda,
Akhmatova, Thoreau, Frederick Douglass—and now
We’re silent as sparrows in the little bushes?

Some masters say our life lasts only seven days.
Where are we in the week? Is it Thursday yet?
Hurry, cry now! Soon Sunday night will come.

[August 2002]

Bly in Iowa City

“When Literary Life Was Still Piled Up In A Few Places[1]

I first came to Iowa City in 1954, driving an old '42 Dodge which I had bought from a German exile in Boston for $65. I spent a couple of weeks on the way at the famous literary summer school in Bloomington, Indiana. John Crowe Ransom gave a talk on "A Litany in Time of Plague" by Thomas Nashe. One stanza reads:

Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls from the air,
Queens have died young and fair,
Dust hath closed Helen's eye.
I am sick, I must die.


Lord have mercy on us!

He noted that most teachers describe this poem as iambic, but if you speak the poem passionately, your voice will tell you the meter is not iambic at all. Powerful beats come in at the start of each line, so the meter is an imitation of the old Greek and Roman rhythms.

Strength stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave,
Swords may not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
Come! come! the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.


Lord have mercy on us!

This marvelous lecture gave hints of new possibilities beyond the iambic mode I had been taught. I also saw William Empson with his long beard riding down the street on a bicycle. I mention these details only to give a sense of what high or elegant literary life was like in those days. It wasn't spread all over the country, so to speak, to a depth of one or two inches as it is now. Instead it piled up in separate places such as Gambier, Ohio, or Bloomington, Indiana, or even Iowa City, at a height of six or seven feet. I remember hearing that Robert Lowell, on his first honeymoon, pitched his tent on Allen Tate's lawn. He had a fine instinct for where the water was high. Jean Stafford later complained that he kept leaving her alone in the tent; he was always inside talking with the Tates.

When my $65 dollar car finally approached the center of Iowa City, I was astounded. The buildings were two stories high only. I guess I must have had in mind some sort of image as that I've just given, an image that associates literary intensity with physical heights, which may have translated itself into high buildings. I felt dismayed. I knew Robert Lowell had been teaching in Iowa City, and I said to myself, "What kind of country is this in which a poet that great is teaching in a town with two story buildings?" There's a lot wrong with my perception, but I was so self-centered and full of fantasies that there's not much use going into the inaccuracies. One could say that it wasn't as if Lowell had been exiled. Paul Engle, with his useful and intelligent impulse toward concentration of literary intensity, had called him there, and Lowell understood. Lowell's acceptance was a compliment to Paul's grasp of the way literature proceeds. A year or two later Engle brought in John Berryman; and Phil Levine's marvelous essay about Berryman's teaching in The Bread of Time suggests perfectly the way the physical presence of one superb writer, in this case Berryman, can change the life, and restructure the body cells, so to speak, of a younger writer ready to be made more intense.

I had come to Iowa hoping for a writing grant from the Rockefeller Foundation, but when I arrived, I heard it had gone to another, and so there I was in Iowa City with no money and no life. I went to see Paul Engle, and after some conversations with Ray West, and the head of freshman English, I was allowed to come into the workshop and given two classes to teach, one in freshman English and one called "Greeks and the Bible." The salary was $100 a month for each, as I recall, so there I was. I could get by on $200 a month, living in a tiny room and eating at a boarding house. Paul was generous, straightforward; he loved poetry, knew good poetry when he saw it, and was no slouch at building a program.

My only other workshop had been at Harvard with Archibald MacLeish. Among the participants were John Hawkes, Kenneth Koch, Don Hall, Mit Hughes, Bob Crichton, Bill Emerson. Most were World War II veterans, just now back in college, and all we did was attack Archibald MacLeish and belittle his friends such as Ezra Pound and Ernest Hemingway. We rarely discussed our own work. Our behavior was outrageous, and it took MacLeish a long time to get over it. So when I sat down in Paul Engle's workshop, it was the first time I had ever seen that strange thing, blue dittoed poems. I was amazed. It seemed beneath the dignity of art to mimeograph poems. We didn't attack the teacher this time; in general, the aggression went against each other. Everyone knew that W. D. Snodgrass, the graduate of an earlier workshop and still hovering in the neighborhood somewhere, had done something introspective and important in poems later called Heart's Needle. But he had to be careful if he turned up, because knives seemed to be out for him. That's the way I recall it. I don't recall being aggressive myself, but perhaps my memory is bad. I do remember hearing around 1975 a story of my behavior in the Iowa workshop twenty years earlier. It seems that I regularly brought a snake to class with me in a gunny sack, and whenever someone began to criticize a poem of mine, I would take the snake out and lay it on the table. I was amazed to be imagined as a snake handler. But we can feel several kinds of fear in this story

The workshop discussions were actually a little pedestrian; certain fads among the poets would dominate for a while. That's always the case with workshops. At the end Paul would come in and say rather sensible remarks. Given my history with MacLeish, whose lofty pronouncements floated down from some earlier heaven, this workshop was my first experience of literary democracy, even perhaps of that horizontal and envy-ridden culture which I later called sibling.

This piece will be more a memoir of the time than of Paul himself, but the literary excitement and dedication we all experienced was due to Paul's sagacity. The teaching most of us did made our lives rather hectic, and I commented in my diary, "In such a hectic life no large work can be conceived." I wrote in my diary one day, "I could work today only from 2:45, when I got back from a conference with Paul Engle, till 3:30, when I had to go to Muncie. Then I worked again from 5:30 to 5:45, hardly one hour altogether. I wrote the poem for Paul Engle, or rather attempted it. How wonderful it is to write poems for someone who cares about you!" So it was clear that I felt a lot of affection and support coming from him.

I also found notes from a conversation I had had with Paul, in which I remarked, "Paul's greatest need is precisely to be needed." So he and I were much alike in that way. He gave me advice on a group of poems I showed him, poems full of Ideas for poems and Possibilities for inner life. To me he always talked straight; he warned me about my grandiosity and my tendency to live six lives at once. His advice was very good: "Do one thing, not many." These were warnings that didn't do much good.

Many lively events happened in our workshops, and many able writers came to speak, but I failed to notice most of them. One personality did become vivid to me, a Korean short story writer, Kim Yong Ik, whom Paul had recruited for the fiction workshop. He and I would walk out in the Iowa City cemetery and look at the black-wingéd angel and talk about art. He looked at the creation of art as a marvelous opportunity which in the course of human life, may arrive as a real possibility only once in every ninth or tenth generation. It had come to him. Dostoevsky was our hero, who would talk to himself in his room while he imagined some character in his fiction, and then he would weep over what had happened to that person. "Surely this is what writing really is–to give all," Kim said. And when we parted near dawn, he would say, "Tomorrow morning we must work very hard." He knew a lot. One day I brought to him a poem that I had begun in New York, and it said something like:

I wander down the streets, not knowing
Who I am, and I am lost.

Kim said, "Oh no. If you say you're lost, that means you're already partly found. If someone is in the woods and truly lost, he doesn't even know that he's lost."

I was stunned. "Well, what do I do then?"

"You just take out the phrase 'I am lost.' Then you compose some images that seem not to belong exactly, rationally. Then when the reader experiences those images, he will say, 'This kid is lost!'" I've been grateful for that for years.

He didn't believe in Western competition. Sometimes when we walked in the cemetery, he'd say, looking at the large stones and the small ones, "You see, even after death they're still competing." I asked him about Korean graveyards. He mentioned a graveyard with wooden markers in his town that stood on a slope. After a few years, the markers and graves would all wash down the slope. I must mention that Kim who had lived for many years in Pittsburgh, writing well, died only a few months ago, during an emotional trip back to Korea.

I noted in my diary, "William Carlos Williams is coming next Monday." He read his poems in the old Capitol Building on campus. The head of the English department introduced him and said, "Tonight we have William Carlos Williams, one of the finest poets now writing in English." Williams stood up and said, "Goddam it! How many times do I have to tell you, I write in American, not in English!" That's what he was like. I loved him, and had hitchhiked to see him when I was an undergraduate.

Later in the spring, Robert Lowell came back for a visit, though he wasn't teaching at the workshop while I was there. I heard that he was staying at Ray West's house, so I sent a manuscript and, calling, asked if I could talk to him. He replied that he had to leave for the airport at such and such a time, but I could come. Here's how I described the fast glimpse of him in my journal: "He stood there hunched, a weight behind his eyes–gentle, graceful, unburning–wise in adaptation. How I trembled to meet him. How odd a poet is in this housey world, simply growing older among small things and small talk. What graceful hands draped questioningly at his chin . . . Marvelous is the word for him." I didn't describe our actual conversation in the diary. When I arrived, he was chatting with Ray West and Delmore Schwarz's first wife, getting ready to go to the airport. As they exchanged remarks, I was amazed to hear that the subject was William Carlos Williams, and his bad poems, ridiculous attitudes, his provincialism, etc. I began to burn. I knew that Williams had been and still was a sort of foster father to Lowell; Williams acted helpfully to balance the influence of Lowell's other, more conservative foster father, Allen Tate. Finally I spoke from my corner of the room, and said this wasn't a true picture of William Carlos Williams or his poetry. All three turned and looked at me as people look at a cockroach. They went on talking, but moved on to another subject. I waited further. Finally Lowell said, looking at his watch, "All right, come on over." He had in his hand the little manuscript I'd given him; he had picked out a brief poem that I had written the year before while living in New York and virtually as a hobo. After being cooped up in the city for months, I drove with friends in someone else's car down through Maryland and felt amazed by the great trees. The poem goes:

With pale women in Maryland,
Passing the proud and tragic pastures,
And stupefied with love
And the stupendous burdens of the foreign trees,
As all before us lived, dazed
With overabundant love in the reach of the Chesapeake,
Past the tobacco warehouse, through our dark lives
Like those before, we move to the death we love
With pale women in Maryland.

I was uncertain about the poem, uncertain about everything. What he said took me by surprise. He said, "Do you know which county you were passing through in Maryland?" "No," I said. "Well you could find that out," he said, "then go there; or go to a library and find out details of the history of that county. That's what I do," he said. "In that situation, I look up all the historical facts I can, find who founded that county, what sort of crimes took place, who introduced the tobacco farming, and so on. Then as I rewrite I try to get as many of those facts as I can into the poem." He wasn't unkind. At least his advice was clear. But I slumped out and was depressed for two or three weeks, saying to myself, "Well, that's it. If that's how a genuine poem is done, I can't do it. I'm not a poet." I didn't look at the poem again for a long time. Six years later, when I was gathering poems for what was at last to be my first book, Silence in the Snowy Fields, I found the poem again and realized that Lowell had been wrong. Some poems don't have historical facts, they just float. This particular poem is a bit elevated and naively romantic in its juvenile love of death, but still it has its integrity like a haiku or a small Chinese lyric. If one puts extraneous, interesting facts into such a poem, it will sink to the bottom of the river. I recalled a poem of Tu Fu's that Kim had often recited to me in Iowa City, a kind of exile's poem:

At the end of the mountain gorge
I hear dark monkeys wail,
In native land a white goose flies over.
Where are my sisters?
Where are my brothers?

This poem could use a few historical facts, perhaps, but if its aim is grief, it's best left as it is.

Paul and Mary would have big parties up at their stone house in Stone City, and I became fond of their children. In the spring of 1956, my wife Carol MacLean and I and Lew Harbison, a student of mine, and his wife went down to the Mississippi River bottoms a few miles south of Iowa City, all wet springiness and tall bare trees and flat ground recently abandoned by the river. High in a tree we saw two young great horned owls. Using a thin movable dead tree, we managed to push the owls along until they fell off the branch. Then we put them in a box and brought them back to Iowa City. I planned to bring the owls north to the Minnesota farm later that week. When Paul heard about the owls, he asked if I would bring them into his daughter's third grade class for the children to see. I did, and the little owls were spectacular, full of feistiness, with huge, intense eyes, like novelists or generals. A few days later, I did drive them up to the farm in Minnesota and let them go, and they were both around there in the draw for years, hooting to each other and wondering what happened to the Mississippi River flats.

When I heard in 1975 or so the story about the gunny sack I would take to class with the snake in it, I realized that it was the same story: the human proclivities for envy, projection and malice had altered the tale of two half-grown owls in a cardboard box in the third grade to a snake in a gunny sack in a graduate school classroom. So it is.

These adventures, these meetings with writers, this gathering place for people sick of small towns, all rose from Paul's sagacity. It was Paul who asked Marguerite Young, that amazing poet, essayist, raconteur, surrealist, fictionalist, to come to town. In my last dip into my diary, I'll put down a few sentences about her:

Tonight I met Marguerite Young and once more the real world returns. Words, vision, meditation, the incredible greatness and sweetness of those on the limb of words. It is all words, and how the whole world dissolves away and leaves in its place the love for those people, and these people, who so love and in return are loved by words. Look into your heart; disregard the world of classes and deadlines and the blue world crossed with red, that entices and takes all away, that one cannot love. Love those who love words, and restrict your friendship to those.




Some love to watch the sea bushes appearing at dawn,
To see night fall from the goose wings, and to hear
The conversations the night sea has with the dawn.

If we can't find Heaven, there are always blue jays.
Now you know why I spent my twenties crying.
Cries are required from those who wake disturbed at dawn.

Adam was called in to name the Red-Winged
Blackbirds, the Diamond Rattlers, and the Ring-Tailed
Raccoons washing God in the streams at dawn.

Centuries later, the Mesopotamian gods,
All curls and ears, showed up; behind them the Generals
With their blue-coated sons who will die at dawn.

Those grasshopper-eating hermits were so good
To stay all day in the cave; but it is also sweet
To see the fence posts gradually appear at dawn.

People in love with the setting stars are right
To adore the baby who smells of the stable, but we know
That even the setting stars will disappear at dawn.


Further reading: Iowa City in the early 1950s: incubator of great poets

(A collage that contains excerpts from: 1) Philip Levine’s essay “Mine own John Berryman,” from The Bread of Time, copyright 1993 by Philip Levine; reprinted by permission of the author; 2) Robert Dana’s essay “Far from the Ocean: Robert Lowell at Iowa, 1953,” from A Community of Writers, copyright 1999 by Robert Dana; reprinted by permission of Peg Dana; and 3) W. D. Snodgrass’s essay “Mentors, Fomenters, and Tormentors,”, from The Southern Review, copyright 1992 by W. D. Snodgrass; reprinted by permission of Kathleen Snodgrass.)








  • Turkish Pears in August: Twenty-Four Ramages (Eastern Washington University Press, 2007)
  • The Urge to Travel Long Distances (Eastern Washington University Press, 2005)
  • My Sentence Was a Thousand Years of Joy (HarperCollins, 2005)
  • Surprised by Evening (RealNewMusic, 2005)
  • The Night Abraham Called to the Stars (HarperCollins, 2001)
  • Eating the Honey of Words: New and Selected Poems (1999)
  • Snowbanks North of the House (1999)
  • Morning Poems (1997)
  • Meditations on the Insatiable Soul (1994)
  • What Have I Ever Lost by Dying?: Collected Prose Poems (1992)
  • Loving a Woman in Two Worlds (1985)
  • Selected Poems (1986)
  • Mirabai Versions (1984)
  • The Man in the Black Coat Turns (1981)
  • This Tree Will Be Here for a Thousand Years (1979)
  • This Body is Made of Camphor and Gopherwood (1977)
  • Old Man Rubbing His Eyes (1974)
  • Jumping Out of Bed (1973)
  • Sleepers Joining Hands (1973)
  • The Light Around the Body (1967)- won the National Book Award
  • The Lion's Tail and Eyes (1962)
  • Silence in the Snowy Fields (1962)



  • The Best American Poetry (1999)
  • The Soul Is Here for Its Own Joy: Sacred Poems from Many Cultures, Ecco Press (1995)
  • The Darkness Around Us Is Deep: Selected Poems of William Stafford (1993)
  • The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: Poems for Men (1992)
  • News of the Universe (1980)
  • Leaping Poetry (1975)
  • A Poetry Reading Against the Vietnam War (1967)



  • The Dream We Carry: Selected and Last Poems of Olav H. Hauge (Copper Canyon Press, 2008) (translated with Robert Hedin)
  • Peer Gynt (verse play) - by Henrik Ibsen (2008)
  • The Winged Energy of Delight: Selected Translations, Harper Collins (2004)
  • The Half-Finished Heaven: The Best Poems of Tomas Tranströmer, Graywolf Press (2001)
  • The Lightning Should Have Fallen on Ghalib: Selected Poems of Ghalib, (with Sunil Dutta, 1999)
  • Lorca and Jiménez: Selected Poems, Beacon Press (1997)
  • Ten Poems of Francis Ponge Translated by Robert Bly & Ten Poems of Robert Bly Inspired by the Poems of Francis Ponge (1990)
  • Trusting Your Life to Water and Eternity: Twenty Poems of Olav H. Hauge (1987)
  • Machado's Times Alone: Selected Poems (1983)
  • The Kabir Book (1977)
  • Friends, You Drank Some Darkness: Three Swedish Poets — Martinson, Ekeloef, and Transtromer (1975)
  • Neruda and Vallejo: Selected Poems (1971)
  • Hunger (novel) — by Knut Hamsun (1967)



  • Remembering James Wright (2005)
  • The Maiden King : The Reunion of Masculine and Feminine (co-authored with Marion Woodman), Henry Holt & Co (November 1998)
  • The Sibling Society, Addison-Wesley (1996)
  • The Spirit Boy and the Insatiable Soul (1994)
  • American Poetry: Wildness and Domesticity (1991)
  • Iron John: A Book About Men (1990)
  • A Little Book on the Human Shadow, (with William Booth, 1988)
  • Eight Stages of Translation (1983)
  • Talking All Morning: Collected Conversations and Interviews (1980)



Text: Zlatko Anguelov

[1] Reprinted with kind permission from Robert Bly’s personal website ; Copyright Robert Bly

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