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

During the CountdownTom Paulin

On the second day of the second month
we were walking through Beeston
– it looked that Sunday
more like a wet Northern
than a wet Midland town
with big strange pollarded trees
on both sides of its not wide not grand
Imperial Road
– every single limbless hacked cutback trunk
was taller than the Victorian houses
and each a kind of écorché
displaced almost tarry with a blind scorched
halfconscious look
– these overgrown but somehow ambushed trees
they’d got too grand for a mere road
– maybe when their trunks were just saplings
it looked like an avenue in the making?
now these rooted
not quite cadavers were nearly speaking back
like a tamarack a hackmatack
– that is the American the charred larch

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