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 Word from Wuhan

Wang Xiuying


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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