In the latest issue:

In Quarantine

Erin Maglaque

Après Brexit

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: Springtime for Donald

David Bromwich

Meetings with their Gods

Claire Hall

‘Generation Left’

William Davies

At the North Miami Museum: Alice Paalen Rahon

Mary Ann Caws

Buchan’s Banter

Christopher Tayler

‘American Dirt’

Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali


James Lasdun

Rereading Bowen

Tessa Hadley

At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

Thomas Jones

Poem: ‘Murph & Me’

August Kleinzahler

The Stud File

Kevin Brazil

John Boorman’s Quiet Ending

David Thomson

In Shanghai: The West Bund Museum

John-Paul Stonard

Diary: The Deborah Orr I Knew

Jenny Turner

The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying


I sometimes lie in the darkness
Glad there is nothing I can see
To blot the pictures in my memory:
Sunlight in a fallen tree
Where I hung on the wilting branches;
Woodlarks circling in the sky
Or folding like a bell into the heather;
Blue light hardening to die

Out of which there hurry faces,
Lips, smiles, a sudden frown,
A body white in the bracken,
Raindrops where the leaves lay brown,
Water, pavements, water,
A fence where the starlings preen –
I compel them through my memory,
Never asking what else might have been.

And then I go down to the children
And watch them sleeping in their room.
Will today be quite forgotten?
I summon it out of the gloom
And wish it into their memories
For a day I shall never see ...

Is it me I want them to remember?
What am I remembering but me?

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