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


Aerogrammes, 1-5

It felt like my life talking to me – after two months,
talking to me again – saying it had bought a new duvet
but was still dithering on the matter of children,
that it had been seeing a lot of its friends – it wondered
whether it was truly in love with me – and had enjoyed
some pleasantly successful moments at work, but it wasn’t
eating or sleeping properly, and was talking far too much.

Guanajuato Two Times

I could keep returning to the same few places
till I turned blue; till I turned into
José José
on the sleeve of his new record album
‘What is Love?’;
wearing a pleasant frown and predistressed denims;
reading the double-page spread (‘The Trouble with José José’)
on his drink problem,
comparing his picture ‘Before’ and ‘After’ ...
I could slowly become a ghost, slowly familiar,
slowly invisible, amiable, obtuse ...
I could say ‘Remember me?’ to the blank bellhop,
and myself remember
the septet in the bandstand playing ‘Winchester Cathedral’,
and the clown coming in for coffee
and to count his takings and take off his face ...
I could take on all my former beds for size.
Meander knowingly through twelve towns with twelve street names between them.
Sit on both sides of the municipal kissing seats,
shaking my head at the blanket men
and the hammock men, in their humorous desperation
offering me hammocks for four, for five, for six ...
I could learn the Spanish for
‘I shall have returned’ or ‘Hullo, it’s me again!’
and get the hang of the double handshake,
first the palms, then the locked thumbs.
My dreams would moulder and swell and hang off me
like pawpaws. I could stand and sway like a palm,
or rooted like a campanile, crumbling slightly
each time the bells tolled, not real bells
but recordings of former bells,
and never for me.

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