The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep... Read more »
Most of my life was spent building a bridge out over the sea though the sea was too wide. I’m proud of the bridge hanging in the pure sea air. Machado came for a visit and we sat on the end of the bridge, which was his idea. Now that I’m old the work goes... Read more »
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he’s a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth... Read more »
You see them on porches and on lawns down by the lakeside, usually arranged in pairs implying a couple who might sit there and look out at the water or the big shade trees. The trouble is you never see anyone sitting in these forlorn chairs though at one time it must have seemed a... Read more »
Poets can’t wait to bury their fathers so they can write about it. Mine wanted no part of that. “I’ll bury myself, thank you.” I thought he meant later, but that afternoon he left a note: I’m dead. I dialed his cell. The reception was bad at that speed but he heard me ask, “What... Read more »
This is farming country. The neighbors will believe you are crazy if you take a walk just to think and be alone. So carry a shotgun and walk the fence line. Pretend you are hunting and your walking will not arouse suspicion. But don’t forget to load the shotgun. They will know if your gun... Read more »