In the latest issue:

The American Virus

Eliot Weinberger

The Home Life of Inspector Maigret

John Lanchester

Story: ‘Have a Seat in the Big Black Chair’

Diane Williams

The Last Whale

Colin Burrow

In Beijing

Long Ling

Princess Margaret and Lady Anne

Rosemary Hill

At the Movies: ‘Arkansas’

Michael Wood

Ruin it your own way

Susan Pedersen

At Home

Jane Miller

The Ottoman Conundrum

Helen Pfeifer

Poem: ‘Muntjac’

Blake Morrison

Piketty’s Revolution

Geoff Mann

Short Cuts: In Tripoli

Jérôme Tubiana

Coetzee Makes a Leap

Christopher Tayler

At Auckland Castle: Francisco de Zurbarán

Nicola Jennings

Drain the Swamps

Steven Shapin

Diary: In the Isolation Room

Nicholas Spice

Three PoemsIan Hamilton
Close
Close

Familiars

If you were to look up now you would see
The moon, the cars, the ambulance,
The elevated road back into town.
                                                     The river weeds
You crouch in seem a yard shorter,
A shade more featherishly purple
Than they were this time last year;
The caverns of ‘your bridge’
Less brilliantly jet black than I remember them.

Even from up here, though, I can tell
It’s the same unfathomable prayer:
If you were to look up now would you see
Your moon-man swimming through the moonlit air?

Colours

Yes, I suppose you taught us something.
That bottle-green, priest’s dressing-gown,
For instance, that they tried to tog you up in
For your last overnight at the Infirmary.
‘My Celtic shroud’, you called it
And when no one laughed: ‘Before morning
Your dear daddy will be Ibrox blue.’

The Forties

‘The self that has survived those trashy years’
Its ‘austere virtue’ magically intact. Well then,
He must have asked himself, is this
The ‘this is it’; that encapsulate Life
I never thought to find
And didn’t seek: beginning at the middle
So that in the end
The damage is outlived by the repair?

At forty-five
I’m father of the house now and at dusk
You’ll see me take my ‘evening stroll’
Down to the dozing lily-pond:
From our rear deck, one hundred and eleven yards.
And there I’ll pause, half-sober, without pain
And seem to listen; but no longer ‘listen out’.
And at my back,
Eight windows, a verandah, the neat plot
For your (why not?) ‘organic greens’,
The trellis that needs fixing, that I’ll fix.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

letters@lrb.co.uk

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Read More

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences