In the latest issue:

An Ordinary Woman

Alan Bennett

Anglo-America Loses its Grip

Pankaj Mishra

Short Cuts: John Bolton’s Unwitting Usefulness

Mattathias Schwartz

Smells of Hell

Keith Thomas

Mrs Oliphant

Tom Crewe

Tippett’s Knack

Philip Clark

At Tate Modern: Steve McQueen

Colin Grant

Catherine Lacey

Nicole Flattery

Churchill’s Cook

Rosemary Hill

The ‘Batrachomyomachia’

Ange Mlinko

On Dorothea Lange

Joanna Biggs

Paid to Race

Jon Day

Poem: ‘Traveller’s Tales: Chapter 90’

August Kleinzahler

The Soho Alphabet

Andrew O’Hagan

Old Tunes

Stephen Sedley

Victor Serge’s Defective Bolshevism

Tariq Ali

The Murdrous Machiavel

Erin Maglaque

Diary: Insane after coronavirus?

Patricia Lockwood


For my mother at 75

The sun-room, but there’s only drizzly rain
Finessing silly doodles on the view
Of what would otherwise be summer grass
And blameless lupins blazing at the stake.
So all eyes turn indoors. And here again
Like kindly furies standing over you
Are friends and family who raise a glass
Then falter, smile, and wait for you to speak.

You flap your hand, half anxious, half amazed –
A hand the years have softened like a slip
Of soap dissolving when it makes a dive
And settles underwater in the pearly-greys
Created by what used to be its shape –
Or would, if you were here and still alive.

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