In the latest issue:

Boris Johnson’s First Year

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: In the Bunker

Thomas Jones

Theban Power

James Romm

What can the WHO do?

James Meek

At the Type Archive

Alice Spawls

Where the Poor Lived

Alison Light

At the Movies: ‘Da 5 Bloods’

Michael Wood

Cultural Pillaging

Neal Ascherson

Jenny Offill

Adam Mars-Jones

Shakespeare v. the English

Michael Dobson

Poem: ‘Now Is the Cool of the Day’

Maureen N. McLane


David Trotter

Consider the Hare

Katherine Rundell

How Should I Refer to You?

Amia Srinivasan

Poem: ‘Field Crickets (Gryllus campestris)’

Fiona Benson

Diary: In Mali

Rahmane Idrissa

The HuntersJamie McKendrick

We that have been hunting all the day
are mighty tired, our hair is dank with sweat
and by our hunting helmets plastered flat.

As days of hunting go, this must be counted
a good day: the horns blew loud and the dogs
barked hard as though they knew it was more for them

than us we went out hunting the wild beast
all day – so they could teach him just how tame
they were, and how wrong to think that being dogs

had taken the edge off their appetite
for sport. We that have been hunting all the day
will keep on hunting through the night

for finer creatures than the forests hide,
through forests deeper than the ones of day.

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