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

Two PoemsHugo Williams

My News

Now that the sun has made it over the tops
of the opposite houses,
flaring through the wrecks
of wallflowers and marguerites,
the seeds from giant purple flowers
spiral up over the graves
of the chrysanthemums,
one-winged sycamore planes
revolve on their axes
down through the air.

A slight breeze knocks the bell heather.
Sun wobbles in the bird mirror.
The green shed is humming.
The bare red twigs
on the upper branches of the peach tree
flick on as an electric charge hits them.
Rose brambles glisten.
The telephone wires
shoot parallel silver bullets into the blue.
How are things with you?


She’s working on a ‘found bed’,
a door panel or workbench,
bound with material like an ironing board.
She runs her hand over
its virgin flatness: not a ripple
disturbs the surface of the sheet
where the bridal couple
have been tucked to extinction.
She stands back in satisfaction,
shivering slightly in the unheated studio.

Old suitcases and games,
wardrobes and window frames
crowd round the narrow bed
teetering on its tripod.
She’ll be out again tonight,
cruising the skips with her shopping trolley.
Every day the piles of junk grow higher,
the floor space smaller.
Her long-term project is a studio piece
whose completion requires her absence.

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