In the latest issue:

An Ordinary Woman

Alan Bennett

Anglo-America Loses its Grip

Pankaj Mishra

Short Cuts: John Bolton’s Unwitting Usefulness

Mattathias Schwartz

Smells of Hell

Keith Thomas

Mrs Oliphant

Tom Crewe

Tippett’s Knack

Philip Clark

At Tate Modern: Steve McQueen

Colin Grant

Catherine Lacey

Nicole Flattery

Churchill’s Cook

Rosemary Hill

The ‘Batrachomyomachia’

Ange Mlinko

On Dorothea Lange

Joanna Biggs

Paid to Race

Jon Day

Poem: ‘Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 90’

August Kleinzahler

The Soho Alphabet

Andrew O’Hagan

Old Tunes

Stephen Sedley

Victor Serge’s Defective Bolshevism

Tariq Ali

The Murdrous Machiavel

Erin Maglaque

Diary: Insane after coronavirus?

Patricia Lockwood

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We are waking early now –
filled with the urgency
small animals must feel
as they prepare for winter.

I had forgotten how cold
it would be – like coming back
after a summer of wandering
lusts to an old lover.

And how beautiful –
the corners of roofs
floating in a white mist
like pieces of wreckage;

afternoons when the sun
burns through – dries
the wings of dying wasps;
light of an awful clarity.

We must make the most of them
we say – these skies of pale
unclouded blue. (Our lives
move in and out of focus too.)

We tread through blankets
of bright leaves like children
playing games – now warm,
now cold and getting colder.

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