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



eftir Kallimachos

Whan they telt me
Ye’d deed
Wey bak
I grat,
Yon nicht
We sat oot gabbin
Till the cauld
Peep o day.
An sae, ma auld
Halikarnassian pal,
Ye got seik
And noo ye’re someplace
Deid in the grun –
But thae sangs, aa
Yon nichtingales o yourn
Still soun
Lik they sounded
When we set oot
An sat oot,
Twa young men.
Daith taks the lot,
They sey,
But, ach,
Thae sangs
He’s nivver
Gonnae get.

Mick Imlah

Than Orpheus befor Pluto sat doune,
And in his handis quhyte his harp can ta …
           Henryson, ‘Orpheus and Eurydice’

The day you died I stared up at the grey
Dome of St Paul’s, then caught the sleeper north,
Dourly imagining your own departure
From London as your last, pained way to stay
Elusive, Mick, Oxonian Aberdonian,
Sly Doric fitted up by your posh voice,
Your sports-star, film noir, flâneur’s loucheness spooked
By the meth-kissed phantom City of Dreadful Night.
I have your stoic email, a few postcards’
Nibwork. When I think of your dark ink,
What flits back is the sound of a Fife blackbird
Singing the day I first heard you were ill –
One drop-dead Orpheus; though I could not spot it,
And when I tried to, then its song just stopped.

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