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

BeachedJohn Welch

This man, this other

Whom brilliance of sunlight almost drowns –

He is a dark blur

Out on the beach inspecting stones.

So does he come

Foolish like this each day to stare

Drawn to an edge where there is no more edge?

Something there is wears out

As if a single look of mine might drown

That figure draped in sunlight

Till given a slight lilt

It disappears and goes inside

And I had wanted it so much,

That journey here past light-infected brickwork

The train a prolonged dawdle

Towards an absence nursed by rails, and now

This congregation of small stones

To say that, being here, you are

Almost word-perfect now.

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