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

Heading OutJohn Ashbery

A single drop fills the rainbow glass.
The fountain overflows. How come the purr
and passing of this every night arrives
at stealth? Just – be prepared. If it happens
every day around this time it happens
more than twice. I’d wager this one has nothing
in it. So’s your old man. We get called out
often on all kinds of suspicious business, he decried.
Like when the kittens arrived – ‘le grand moment’ –
or when the kitchen sagged with the weight
of the kitchen garden. You and she shouldn’t
be out around now, yet nothing I would say
inflects your stalking, be it antelope
or addax, or any number of valuable and not so
permanent entries in the lifestyle sweepstakes.

Some were summoned at the sound of a great drum
and could not put off their walking. Whenever they’re drunk
a ghastly change invades the headlines. Here or elsewhere
both rank object and sturdy cult fixture, everything fits,
and finding its place, loses it. Yet so much memory
is stored in this little bin we’d be sure to trip over it
if that were allowed.

I was in here two and a half years.
Missed the inauguration.
Hundreds of witnesses could have sent you the heaviest rain.
I’ll go over there some time and try.
The leader had been staring fervently
like some Lutheran tea party, as though everyone
and his mother was to shut up. Like that.
What’s more, the responsibility of that
miscarries when it is rubber. Yo, temple!
Hear what I’m sayin’? By the way, have you turned off this …
Well, I don’t know what to tell you about it.
Well I was talking about it, doxology, sockdolager.
On French radio we’re trying to take a bad kind of thing
and close up at school.

Own the blankness.
Your napkin ring is bitch-slapping America.
Can’t take them out. The place was above all creative.
Do you want these up? Bona-fide curlicues
everyone talks about? The song of mud
learning to handle it?

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Read More

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences