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

Two PoemsRuth Padel

The Two-Handled Jug

A low-flying stork. Two acres of graves,
guarded and layered in rose-pink. Walls, city, dust.

We have been here for ever. Anonymous
pinchpenny plague tombs from medieval centuries.

Bronze epitaphs in French, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic.
Fathers and children, fathers and wives.

The Jewish Cemetery, Marrakesh. A visitor,
wearing the guard’s black velvet kippah,

wanders, takes notes, then washes his hands
in a marble trough by the ten-foot gate.

Swallows, just arrived in Africa, write
new calligraphy in a haze of cold spring sky.

Breathing Hebrew to himself, he pours
water, two delicate glass stamens from a copper cup,

over his girlfriend’s fingers. A prayer
she is too shy to ask him about.

Lone Ranger

When all this is over, said the princess, this
bothersome Growing Up, I’ll live with wild horses.
I want to race tumbleweed blowing down a canyon
in Wyoming, dip my muzzle in a mountain tarn.

I intend to learn the trails of Ishmael and Astarte
beyond blue ridges where no one can get me,
find a bird with a pearl in it, heavy as ten copper coins,
track the luminous red wind that brings thunder
and go where ripples on new grass shimmer
in a hidden valley only I shall know. I want to see

autumn swarms of Monarch butterflies, saffron,
primrose, honey-brown, in purple skies
on their way to the Gulf. And gold coin on the faces
of Ocean, calling all migrants home.

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