The Daily

From the Archive

Jumping from Bridges

May 26, 2016 | by

The Golden Gate Bridge under construction.

The Golden Gate Bridge under construction.

This essay by M. F. K. Fisher appeared posthumously in our Spring 1995 issue. Fisher died in 1992. Her previously unpublished novel, The Theoretical Foot, was released earlier this year.

Now I am thinking about jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge, and about other places where people have jumped to their deaths for many years. I think I should find out more about this, for I have an idea that there is some sort of collection of spirit strength or power or love in them that says no, or yes, or now.

I feel very strongly that this is true about the Golden Gate Bridge. Today, I heard that people are trying once more to build a kind of suicide-prevention railing along its side, which would keep us from seeing the bay and the beautiful view of the city. I haven’t read much about suicide lately, but I believe that almost 98 percent of such deaths leave more evil than good after them. Even my husband Dillwyn’s death, which I feel was justified, left many of us with some bad things. And when my brother died, about a year after Timmy did, my mother asked me very seriously if I felt that Timmy’s death had influenced David to commit his own suicide, which to me remains a selfish one, compared to the first. I said, “Of course, yes! I do think so, Mother.” And I did think then that Timmy’s doing away with himself helped my young brother David to kill himself, a year later. But there was really no connection; we don’t know what the limit of tolerance is in any human being. Read More »

The Single Girl’s Guide to Art

May 19, 2016 | by

A Girl With A Dead Canary, Jean Baptiste Greuze, 1765.

Jean Baptiste Greuze, A Girl With A Dead Canary, 1765.

Shannon Borg’s poem “The Single Girl’s Guide to Art” appeared in our Spring 2002 issue. Her latest collection is CorsetRead More »

Summing Up

May 12, 2016 | by

Frederic Edwin Church

Frederic Edwin Church.

Claribel Alegria’s poem “Summing Up” appeared in our Fall 1988 issue. Alegria is ninety-two today. Her latest book is Casting Off, translated by Margaret Sayers Peden. Read More »

April to May

May 4, 2016 | by

Camille_Pissarro_-_Gelee_blanche,_ancienne_route_d'Ennery,_Pontoise_-_1873

Camille Pissarro, Gelée blanche, 1873.

Joyce E. Peseroff’s poem “April to May” appeared in our Spring 1979 issue. Her latest collection is Know ThyselfRead More »

Birthday Letter from South Carolina

April 27, 2016 | by

Augustus Paul Trouche, The Hundred Pines, James Island, South Carolina, c. nineteenth century.

Jean Valentine’s poem “Birthday Letter from South Carolina” appeared in our Fall 1981 issue. Valentine is eighty-two today. Her most recent collection is Shirt in Heaven. Read More »

Morning Street

April 21, 2016 | by

William Edouard Scott, Rainy Night at Etaples, 1912

William Edouard Scott, Rainy Night at Etaples, 1912

Carlos Drummond de Andrade’s poem “Morning Street” appeared in our Fall 1986 issue. He is considered by some to be the greatest Portuguese-language poet of all time.

The splashing rain
unearthed my father.
I never imagined
him buried thus,
to the din of trolleys
on an asphalt street
giant palm trees slanting on the beach
(and a voice from sleep
to stroke my hair),
as melodies wash up
with lost money
discarded confessions
old papers, glasses, pearls.

To see him exposed
to the damp, acrid air,
that drifts in with the tide
and cuts your breath,
to wish to love him
without deceit
to cover him with kisses, with flowers, with swallows,
to alter time
to offer the warm
of a quiet embrace
from this elderly recluse,
discarded confessions
and a lamb-like truce.

To feel the lack
of inborn strengths
to want to carry him
to the older sofa
of a bygone ranch,
but splashes of rain
but sheets of mud beneath reddish street lamps
but all that exists
of morning and wind
between one nature and another
yawning sheds by the docks
discarded confessions
ingratitude.
What should a man do
at dawn
(a taste of defeat
in his mouth, in the air)
in whatever place?
Everything spoken, drunk, or even pretended
and the rest still buried
in the folds of sleep,
cigarette stubs
the wet glare of streets
discarded confessions
morning defeat.

Vague mountains
greening waves
newspapers already white,
hesitant melody
trying to spawn
conditions for hope
on this gray day, of a broken lament.
Nothing left to remind me
of the seamless asphalt.
Abandoned cellars
my body shivers
discarded confessions:
abruptly, the walk home.

—Translated from the Portuguese by Thomas Colchie