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

MachinesAlan Dixon

Know them by their machines,
Machines of visiting friends,
As they want to be known.
Not beautiful, I think,
But elegant, I suppose,
She speaks if what I wear
Respects her neighbourhood.

My wellingtons and spade
Make me invisible;
Having no shiny shell
I take to camouflage.
Sometimes card-backs displayed
Like polished teeth show me
How popular they must be.

Outside her house I see
A slouchy yellow Dodge,
Licked, poisonous, chemical,
Or one of those high jeeps
With which they give away
Samurai swords, Koi sharks,
Live puppies of bronze dogs.

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