The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It’s ripe strawberries that bring me to my knees in the garden this morning, impossibly big and red as those on the covers of gardening magazines in January and almost as sweet as the small wild ones my brother and I picked up on Best’s Hill, eating more than we dropped into the coffee cans... Read more »
After the biopsy, after the bonescan, after the consult and the crying, for a few hours no one could find them, not even my sister, because it turns out they’d gone to the movies. Something tragic was playing, something epic, and so they went to the comedy with their popcorn and their cokes— the old... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
Hunting them, a man must sweat, bear the whine of a mosquito in his ear, grow thirsty, tired, despair perhaps of ever finding them, walk a long way. He must give himself over to chance, for they live beyond prediction. He must give himself over to patience, for they live beyond will. He must be... Read more »
Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years... Read more »
It was a kind of torture—waiting to be kissed. A dark car parked away from the street lamp, away from our house where my tall father would wait, his face visible at a pane high in the front door. Was my mother always asleep? A boy reached for me, I leaned eagerly into him, soon... Read more »