The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
What a wonder I was when I was young, as I learn by the stern privilege of being old: how regardlessly I stepped the rough pathways of the hillside woods, treaded hardly thinking the tumbled stairways of the steep streams, and worked unaching hard days thoughtful only of the work, the passing light, the heat,... Read more »
A morning after a week of rain and the sun shot down through the branches into the tall, bare windows. The brindled cat rolled over on his back, and I could hear you in the kitchen grinding coffee beans into a powder. Everything seemed especially vivid because I knew we were all going to die,... Read more »
If you’ve ever had one you know what I’m saying: soggy with steam, too much butter soaking into the crevices. At first you’re mad—you told them butter on the side— but then you’re grateful to have it. Day after day you eat it dry, now away, alone on business in your overheated hotel room, you’re... Read more »
Nobody in the hospital Could tell the age Of the old woman who Was called Susanna I knew she spoke some English And that she was an immigrant Out of a little country Trampled by armies Because she had no visitors I would stop by to see her But she was always sleeping All I... Read more »
In our teens we all bought girdles with rubber knobs to hold up our stockings. We wiggled into them, our “foundations.” So many things look absurd from a distance that people still take seriously, like whether there’s a Heaven for pets. What ever happened to my girdle? One day I peeled it off for the... Read more »
When the foreman whistled My brother and I Shouldered our hoes, Leaving the field. We returned to the bus Speaking In broken English, in broken Spanish The restaurant food, The tickets to a dance We wouldn’t buy with our pay. From the smashed bus window, I saw the leaves of cotton plants Like small hands... Read more »