• Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Introduction
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Chapter 10
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
    • Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties
    • through the crash
  • index
    • #A-E see!
    • F–K, wha’ th’
    • L-P 33 1/3 rpm
    • Q-T pie
    • U-Z together forever
  • me
  • others
    • William Carlos Williams
  • poemics
  • poeviews
  • teaching matters
  • wormholes

mlewisredford

~ may the Supreme and Precious Jewel Bodhichitta take birth where it has not yet done so …

mlewisredford

Tag Archives: living room

riders of the night

03 Thursday Oct 2019

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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Tags

2019, 7*, buildings, cars, coat, continent, crane, dark, docks, dualistic conception, hats, headlights, ideas, inexplicable, light, living room, making sense, morning, night, paper, pink, propaganda, rain, red, ships, silhouette, sound, speech, streets, sweat, thinking, time, Tintin, truck, waiting, war, water, waves

                riders of the night

booms of inexplicability
                had spattered velvet stars and shredded cloth all morning

despite the raised-brow
                consternation of the smartest of overcoats and the darkest of hats

that startled drops of sweat
                could devise in the presence of impending war, it was only   th-  

  at night   by the docks where
                the cargo waited unknown and the ships floated above the water,

that one could think a thing between them
                before any further dénouement under filigree refinery of silhouette;

                the   next  morning   the ship sat in the water, content to the
lapping red line,

                waiting fast and moored under the single ribbon of exhaust
from the funnel f’ard;

                but it is only   later   that water ranges continental across stepped and geologic                
wave, under relentless rain,

                that solitary lights lolling will make any sense at all;
and there were some

                had ideas like a living-room on a pivot that housed raised cranes
but the cars drove through streets

                like they owned them and the trucks travelled in straight trail
of their antecedents’ front headlights

                and although buildings always pointed up, the propaganda usually
ended up on pink paper:

                ‘Me, drive ‘round something that is nothing, but something you think is something,                
 but is nothing …?’

 

{image not mine, found on the internet, can’t remember where, happy to take down if a problem}

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

buildings wormhole: everything is caused by something, which / something is caused by something else, nothing / stands alone where all pass as phantoms
cars wormhole: travelling / back
crane wormhole: ‘don’t look at it …’
light wormhole: breakfast
living room wormhole: what life went on
morning & sound & streets & time & water wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
night wormhole: THE ATTIC WHICH IS DESIRE: by William Carlos Williams
pink wormhole: beneath
rain wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later
red wormhole: 11/1 by William Carlos Williams
silhouette wormhole: window
speech wormhole: the blessings of the Buddhas
thinking wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – I took my camera into the fields
waiting wormhole: my uncomfortable life
war wormhole: in deed
waves wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – The Valley

 

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what life went on

26 Tuesday Jul 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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1960s, 1997, 2012, 5*, abandonment, aloof, anger, children, Dad, dream, Eglinton Hill, family, flowers, forgiveness, garden, grief, kitchen, life, living room, pride, speech, table, walls, yellow

 

 

 

                                I arrive at the garden wall of Eglinton Hill*,
                                painted yellow, not quite finished; my kids

                                come out to see me, what has been done
                                while I was at work (what life went on

                                while Dad was away, what had been done),
                                straight into the front living room* – it is a

                                dappled kitchen now, 1960s small-flowered
                                and yellow-weave table cloth; I wander around

                                the rooms with the kids, how they have
                                changed; I rise out of sleep with the grief,

                                I still feel the hurt, I cannot forgive, I have
                                high expectations: proud angry and aloof

 

* childhood home; I was in the front living room where I heard my parents argue for the first and last time

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

abandonment wormhole: 1967
children wormhole: ashramas
Dad wormhole: spit / spot
dream wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – moment
Eglinton Hill wormhole: the figure “46” / in frosted glass
family & living room wormhole: currency of generations
garden & kitchen & speech wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – from arm to nature, doing nothing
life wormhole: carpet worn / to the backing – poewieview #30
table wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] by Mark L. Redford – the soft canticle of the gourds:
walls wormhole: trellis / and wisteria – poewieview #29
yellow wormhole: the / bright yellow / world

 

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currency of generations

19 Thursday May 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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2012, buttons, childhood, clothes, colour, cupboard, echo, Eglinton Hill, family, generation, history, identity, lifetimes, living room, marble, marshmallow, morning, Mum, muse, pastel, sound, speech, stairs, taste, tin, transparent

 

 

 

                                currency of generations

                                ‘fetch the tin of buttons’
                                a quest to the cupboard
                                by the stairwell just outside
                                the room we dressed in
                                and spent all morning
                                because it was warm
                                ‘the one with the fruits’
                                different sorts of fruit
                                pastel-coloured and
                                marshmallowy on a tin
                                ‘they’re petit-fours’
                                something to understand
                                later (the taste had been sugary
                                and pasty and although
                                it looked like fruit it stuck
                                in my throat) now has
                                buttons which are cool
                                and swirly when I run
                                my finger through them
                                and marbled-enough
                                to see history and boiled-
                                sweet transparent-enough
                                to see worlds themed in
                                colour and echo from the clothes
                                of real people from family aunts
                                and uncles in the past who
                                I never knew or can’t remember
                                the lineage from which I came
                                contained under tin-bent lid

 

 

0.62

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

childhood & Eglinton Hill & morning wormhole: between thoughts
echo & stairs wormhole: no one – poewieview #24
family & lifetimes & sound & speech wormhole: being in love – poewieview #26
history wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
identity wormhole: too late:
living room wormhole: fine
Mum wormhole: finding my own true nature – Plumstead, Woolwich, 190915
muse wormhole: and that’s where I are

 

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fine

04 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

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'scape, 2013, birdsong, blackbird, cars, ceiling, combe end, living room, morning, open, passing, rain, silence, sound, speech, talking, windows

 

 

 

                                                              fine

                                              the
                                is-it-raining-I-can’t-see-it
                settled yes-been-like-this-
                all-morning settling lower and lower
                like a living room ceiling
                while the blackbirds call
                                each other

                                then
                after a car passed and diminished
                away into the silence
                                ‘hello, Anne, how’s it going?’

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

blackbird wormhole: the breath of London
cars & morning wormhole: 1965
combe end wormhole: stacked
living room & sound & talking & windows wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
open wormhole: opening
passing & silence wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25
rain wormhole: first Spring storm
speech wormhole: aghh – we’ve been infected / it’s spreading through the system / we’re losing our files … / it’s taken out the processor … / I, I can’t open with this program anymore … / it’s scanning me – / I’ve got to buy a Virus Protection Program / from it …

 

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Michael Redford: triptych

29 Friday Apr 2016

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

1935, 1970, 2007, 2009, 2012, afterlife, armchair, being, black, brown, carpet, chair, cigar, doing, doors, evening, fire, floorboards, garden, green, horizon, life, living, living room, night, piano, plants, plastic, Ramsden Heath, realisation, sitting, sitting room, smell, sound, table, talking, trees, uncle, windows, wine, wood

 

 

 

                                           Michael Redford
                                           1935-2007

                                           later on
                           he strolled in the garden
                           breathing the night and the plants
                           smoking a fine cigar

                           then he paused
                           and looked back at the armchair
                           where he had been sitting –
                                           Pphffffff

 

—~~M~~—

 

                                              sitting room

                                              plastic-marbled
                                              chest-height handle

                                              smell of sofa-linen
                                              and wood-fire evenings

                                              with company
                                              and dark green wines

                                              cool black boards and
                                              the white patterned carpet

                                              with almost-meeting
                                              crenellated walls

                                              brow-height mantelpiece
                                              on jungle green

                                              and the piano in the
                                              corner with duff bass keys –

                                              plant-shaking

 

—~~M~~—

 

                                                                      1970

                                                                      to my uncle
                                                                      shifting on
                                                                      hardplastic
                                                                      seat of dining
                                                                      chair – crack –

                                                                      elbow uncomfortable
                                                                      on table-edge
                                                                      carving – creak –
                                                                      to execute a
                                                                      perfect tree

                                                                      on the horizon
                                                                      with just two strokes
                                                                      one brown
                                                                      one green
                                                                      I knew then

                                                                      to put down
                                                                      my compass plans
                                                                      for every detail
                                                                      but only just now
                                                                      doing it

 

looking for what to publish today, I found my uncle unassumingly proffering the lesson in life that he always gave, even nine years after he died: that you don’t look for life, you notice it; some teachers teach by being rather than saying, so that you don’t realise you are being taught until you know; wherever he is now, I hope he knows what he gave me/us … in fact I dedicate the clean-ity of all I notice to return the gift to my uncle wherever his lives have led him now

 

Mick and Mark

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being & doing wormhole: need
black wormhole: the start of adolescence
brown wormhole: London Hearts – poewieview #4
carpet wormhole: ‘the hour before dinner – / the empire of dusk’ – poewieview #6
doors & garden wormhole: impressionism
evening wormhole: well,
green & talking wormhole: bavardage
horizon & life wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
living & night & smell & sound & table & windows & wood wormhole: B le tch l ey P ark
living room wormhole: Woolwich Central – making life better II
piano wormhole: tabla
Ramsden Heath & uncle wormhole: … still waving!
realisation wormhole: dream career // groggy
sitting wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
sitting room wormhole: purple and mauve
trees wormhole: words tumble like / boulders – poewieview #25

 

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sit

20 Tuesday Oct 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2010, abandonment, ageing, Batman, bedroom, being, biography, birthday, books, border, branches, cape, carpet, cars, Catcher in the Rye, childhood, children, comics, compassion, counting, cowl, crying, Dad, divorce, father, flower, fog, fracture, French, green, guru, history, house, identity, image, leaf, life, living room, lyric, marriage, moonlight, Mum, music, night, numbers, parents, pattern, planets, posture, power, Salinger, self-compassion, sentient beings, settee, shadow, sitting, skyline, speech, stone, sunlight, superhero, Superman, surrealism, talking to myself, teaching, wife, world, writing, yin yang

 

 

 

                           I stared at the pattern of the carpet
                           driving my cars behind the settee
                           while my parents said final things
                           to each other; the twirl of the branches

                           a better life, the curl of a flower;
                           you’d better go, the border; and
                           never step back in this house again,
                           the shadow of the leaf is also a

                           darker green; I had never studied
                           the pattern before – never had to,
                           never could – I can work it out now,
                           see how it repeats; I think something

                           is happening with Mum and Dad
                           on the other side of the settee; but
                           this pattern continues around the
                           whole carpet, around the whole room;

                           only later – in bed – is it announced
                           what I had already known, and only
                           then could I ask why does it have to
                           happen to us and cry; only when it

                           was announced, only when it was
                           expressed; I had already known
                           but I could only count the patterns,
                           I could only drive the cars; and

                           as I cried, I was numb – pattern
                           before settee – I could fracture
                           from the world, just find a pattern;
                           you’re the man of the house now,

                           someone said to me, so I studied
                           the pages of comicbooks – patterns
                           of power, solving under cowl,
                           jumping under cape, between the

                           skyline and the world: I shall
                           throw stones high, until they
                           don’t come down; I shall dig so low
                           that no one could follow, no;

                           I shall count all numbers; I shall
                           collect all numbers; I shall
                           discover all planets; I shall adopt
                           the posture of heroes, no; I shall

                           number the histories; I shall weave
                           the texture of music; I shall taste
                           the shock of lyric; I shall smell
                           the books, no; I shall sunlight

                           the chorus; I shall cry the biography;
                           I shall see the image, and write them
                           into existence, yes; I shall follow
                           the curl and the twist and the twirl

                           under moonlight all the night long;
                           then, I shall play catch in the rye;
                           I shall alors les boulevards; I shall
                           yin the old yang; I shall surreal in

                           the fog; I shall honour my guru
                           I shall marry my wife; I shall father
                           my children; I shall teach in those classes –
                           but forty two years on, he had still

                           just left; and I still didn’t know how
                           to be the man; time to get out from
                           behind the settee, take a seat with
                           all the others, and
                                                  just
                                                  sit there with them all awhile

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

abandonment & divorce wormhole: … back to the outbreath
Batman wormhole: zok! and pow!
bedroom & Dad wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
being & identity & talking to myself & world & writing wormhole: out!
books wormhole: library: start where you are IV // all the distance I have travelled!
branches wormhole: Exceat to Cuckmere Haven
carpet wormhole: Ashdown Forest / 080213 14:47
cars wormhole: after all?
childhood & music wormhole: fantasia
comics wormhole: Detective Comics #345
compassion wormhole: de Boeddha // of light
father wormhole: sight / seeing
fog wormhole: my life / of others
green wormhole: three musicians
history wormhole: Brugges April 2015 – looking lost
house wormhole: House by the Railroad, 1925
life & speech wormhole: “write, let’s break outta here!”
living room wormhole: Woolwich Central – making life better II
Mum wormhole: dream 230315
night wormhole: mauve / night
posture & sitting & superhero wormhole: exactly equal
power wormhole: the continental stride of trains
shadow & teaching wormhole: … anymore
skyline wormhole: The Louvre in a Thunderstorm, 1909
stone wormhole: Evening Wind, 1921
Superman wormhole: escape from Flat Planet

 

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Woolwich Central – making life better II

27 Tuesday Jan 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

2012, 9*, city, compassion, fear, identity, life, lifetimes, living room, love, pain, prayer, question, reading, silence, sky, space, superhero, Victorian houses, voices, walls, windows, Woolwich, words

 

 

 

                           Woolwich Central – making life better II

                           passing the gothic Victorian house pointing
                           skywards in all directions partitioned to
                           so many living rooms I know how much

                           I cannot be the superhero to the voice
                           sustained in high-register and edge of fear
                           let alone for the silent voice that sits by the

                           hollow wall under the table; can I rend
                           those walls asunder and pike the onslaught
                           with a single glance deep into the whorl

                           of flinch and recoil of a lifetime of no register?
                           can I scoop up the silence and hold it foetal
                           forever safe from division before the window?

                                          can I?

                                          spell:–

                           may the pain of scream and the silence
                           of numb build the very thirteen floors of
                           open-plan living in the centre of the city that

                           they never quite found when they committed
                           their lives together for life and may all the fear
                           and cower magnify transparent exponential

                           to the tangle that pulls it all tight into its own
                           relief – the space forever at its heart as the
                           space between these words that allows them to be read

                           thank you

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

city wormhole: city twilight
compassion wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
identity wormhole: just words wiped across a line
life & lifetimes & love & reading & sky & space & walls wormhole: 1959 –– MANHATTAN –– 2012
living room wormhole: tag cloud poem VIII – growth
silence wormhole: ‘the walking stick …’
superhero wormhole: amid
Victorian houses & Woolwich wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
voices wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
windows wormhole: 1977
words wormhole: career came to naught …

 

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tag cloud poem VIII – growth

08 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

2015, 6*, Allen Ginsberg, childhood, doors, dream, earth, Eglinton Hill, emergence, emptiness, finding, floorboards, garden, Genesta Road, ghosts, girl, giving, glass, gold, grass, green, grey, groundlessness, growth, living room, looking, mist, moon, morning, night, open, space, tag cloud poem, time, windows, writing

 

 

 

                                it was in the garden where it all started
                                it is always in the garden where it all

                                starts (… save the living room at night
                                tracking the movement of the moon,

                                of course); the brick and clay of
                                Genesta Road*, earth to the ghosts

                                of Eglinton Hill*: the floorboards echo
                                with open doors where Ginsberg once

                                visited in a dream to exorcise the
                                emptiness, with all due and sober

                                consideration, clearing the morning
                                mist better to glimpse the girl who

                                suggests the secret (following the line
                                of her unknowing stare) giving the

                                clues to the green space found between
                                cracks in the glass (still holding plane

                                with no attendant shatter) where it
                                is rumoured the gold is to be found

                                between the edges of the blades of
                                grass that once were grey from the

                                groundlessness out from which
                                they had sought their growth

 

* Genesta Road, Eglinton Hill – childhood houses

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

[Allen] Ginsberg & emptiness & time & writing wormhole: living mystery / murder theatre
childhood wormhole: Christmas
doors wormhole: Dr Strange IV – ellipses
dream wormhole: ‘anyway / is it all just / a dream?’
Eglinton Hill & garden wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
emergence & night wormhole: dawn
Genesta Road & looking wormhole: glass
ghosts wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
girl wormhole: knees
giving wormhole: career came to naught …
glass & green & grey wormhole: new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight
gold wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
grass wormhole: bass and piano
groundlessness wormhole: 1963
living room wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
mist wormhole: born again
moon wormhole: moon
morning wormhole: lobby
open wormhole: 1967
space wormhole: Batman#175
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
windows wormhole: Buddha Amitabha

 

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great underbelly to the rooftops

28 Sunday Dec 2014

Posted by m lewis redford in poems, poeviews

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Tags

2014, 4*, buildings, city, eyes, Fantastic Four, hands, Have, head, Jack Kirby, landscape, life, living room, rain, rooftops, silhouette, sky, speech, Stan Lee, technology, windows

 

 

 

                                   while domestic snap and banter
                                   fits within the landscape of living room

                                   some break off to stand silhouetted and
                                   rain-streaked by the windows and

                                   high apartments until a hand of rock
                                   holds the griddled gathering of civic plan

                                   clear-skyed and clear-eyed beneath
                                   all fiery scan and catastrophe “so long

                                   as men feel the end can justify the means
                                   … the fools!   The blind unwitting fools!”

                                   where all about heads become regal and
                                   all feature and thought become arrays of pin

                                   and needle protruding as face, then
                                   there is need for technology to soar

                                   great underbelly to the rooftops

 

askance from Fantastic Four #s 102-103 (September-October 1970), Marvel, plot: Stan Lee; storytelling & art: Jack Kirby & John Romita

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

buildings wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
city & rooftops & sky & windows wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
eyes wormhole: Christmas
hands wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
Have wormhole: sometimes
life wormhole: ‘the blues shifted …’
living room wormhole: blue and green / a l l s o r t s
rain wormhole: ‘“Never,” said the Sandman; / he blinked …’
silhouette wormhole: multifarious: the Dark Knight Returns (1986)
speech wormhole: Dr Strange V – all the words of all the times of all the worlds speak

 

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blue and green / a l l s  o  r  t  s

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by m lewis redford in poems

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

'scape, 2013, 5*, air, Ashdown Forest, blue, brown, field, gorse, grass, green, living room, mauve, pine, white, yellow

 

 

 

                                                    blue and green
                                                    a l l s  o  r  t  s

                                the grasses now
                                have blond mop-tops
                                lurching on their blue-
                                green tensile stalks

                                the heather smoulders mauve
                                in the deep brown clinker

                                the newgreen bracken
                                fields wide and merged
                                with waves of air
                                and yellowhite grass

                                all bordered and separated
                                by gorse and pine tree liquorice –
                                ever like a living room

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

air wormhole: red / red / air
Ashdown Forest wormhole: perched
blue & green wormhole: 1974
brown wormhole: Science lesson
field wormhole: out!
grass wormhole: school uniform
living room wormhole: 1976
mauve wormhole: Birmingham / 030413
pine wormhole: The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get (1973) – tribute
white wormhole: 1974
yellow wormhole: 1972

 

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← Older posts

… Mark; remember …

"... the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful; it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe to find ashes." ~ Annie Dillard

pages coagulating like yogurt

  • Bodhisattvacharyavatara
    • Chapter 1
    • Chapter 10
    • Chapter 2
    • Chapter 3
    • Chapter 4
    • Chapter 5
    • Chapter 6
    • Chapter 7
    • Chapter 8
    • Chapter 9
    • Introduction
  • collected works
    • 25th August 1981 – count Up
    • askance From Hell
    • Batman
    • Bob 1995-2012
    • David Bowie Movements in Suite Major
    • Edward Hopper: Poems at an Exhibition
    • Eglinton Hill
    • FLOORBOARDS
    • Granada
    • in and out / the Avebury stones / can’t seem to get / a signal …
    • Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters]
    • Miller’s Batman
    • mum
    • nan
    • Portsmouth – Southsea
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