In the latest issue:

The Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying

‘The Man in the Red Coat’

Luc Sante

Is it OK to have a child?

Meehan Crist

Short Cuts: Ubu Unchained

August Kleinzahler

Bury that bastard

Nicole Flattery

Surplus Sons

Clare Bucknell

Oliver Lee Jackson

Adam Shatz

The Servant Problem

Alison Light

Poem: ‘1 x 30’

Anne Carson

The Old Bailey

Francis FitzGibbon

Jiggers, Rods and Barleycorns

James Vincent

More Marple than Poirot

J. Robert Lennon

On Rachael Allen

Matthew Bevis

Like a Ball of Fire

Andrew Cockburn

The Staffordshire Hoard

Tom Shippey

Blessed Isles

Mary Wellesley

At the Movies: ‘Jojo Rabbit’ and ‘A Hidden Life’

Michael Wood

Redeeming Winnie

Heribert Adam

Diary: A Friendly Fighting Force

Nick McDonell

Three PoemsIan Hamilton


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?


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.

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