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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

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Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali

GOD HATES YOUR FEELINGS

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Rereading Bowen

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At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

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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

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The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying

City of BoysPeter Redgrove
Close
Close

Who was cast out of heaven
But is alive in me. A certain
Ghost dangles foaming in his jaw.

My tongue licks my palate
And the big shed of my jaws
Distils. The head of beer

Pocked like the Moon in craters
Alive in me. In this city of boys
A million open collars of beer

The fizz hanging in the throat
Like a gossamer in a well,
The moon going down

In black tides, the spirit
Distilling in the dark retorts
Coiling behind flat waistbands,

Distilling through the brains
Then leaving them limp
Like a dangling ghost,

Then back to the homes
The heads parade, take off
In sleep like wings, awake

To the resonant crystal
The TV chamber which is square,
The prisoner of light therein,

And the smell of disapproval
Over her entire skin like a low lawn.
The beer with its collars of light

Turning the gutdark to light,
Sweeping with its short-lived torches
Through twilight gullets. Which

Was cast out of heaven but
Is alive in me. The crystal
Tankards with their

Brilliant ghostly heads; how
The true crystals venerate the candles,
Resound to the exploring light,

Sing to the torch held up
In the great unexpected cave far underground,
The cave with fountains and a river

That casts itself out of heaven
In waterfalls, visible
And invisible falls of light.

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