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 Golden StateStephen Knight

For Colleen

If not the giant redwoods
taking centuries to reach
the light, nor the lights-
camera-action typhoons
regular as clockwork
in the murky Tonga Bar,
nor, perched above LA,
the penitential Getty –
its prospect of the coastline
smudged by airborne crap,
nor even the Chronicle’s
news that the universe
is flat, and expanding
faster and faster for ever
– ‘Wow! Wow! Wow!’
to quote one scientist –
then how about the way
you drove your car
wrists out, double-jointed,
or, sealed in silver paper,
those skinny joints
I could never light, or
the line in a Visitors’ Book
in the Valley of the Moon
left a decade earlier
(This is a beautiful setting
to put the ghosts to rest)
or else that ‘bohemian’
legacy of Venice Beach,
a henna tendril
fading from your ankle
slowly, over days.

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