The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
My only purpose this moment is looking at a lizard. Does he know he’s not alone? He breathes with tiny push-ups, his skin all hairline caverns soaking up the sun. I doubt, alive, I’m liable to get closer to timelessness than this, looking at a little lizard breathing.
Because love has its own grammar, its own sentences, some that run-on too long, others just fragments. It uses a language not always appropriate or too informal, and often lacks clarity. Love is punctuated all wrong, changes tenses abruptly, relies heavily on the first person, can be redundant, awkward, full of unnecessary repetition. Every word... Read more »
There is a country to cross you will find in the corner of your eye, in the quick slip of your foot—air far down, a snap that might have caught. And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing voice that finds its way by being afraid. That country is there, for us, carried as... Read more »
everything here seems to need us Rainer Maria Rilke I can hardly imagine it as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient prayer of my arms swinging in counterpoint to my feet. Here I am, suspended between the sidewalk and twilight, the sky dimming so fast it seems alive. What if you felt the... Read more »
Late afternoons, we’d tuck up our hems under Minisa Bridge, scrape our white knees on scrub brush and drowned trees to slide down the dirt bank past milk-weed gone to seed, cattails and trash to sit on stones at the edge of the river and giggle and smoke, waiting to wolf-whistle North High’s rowing team.... Read more »
I have to believe a Beethoven string quartet is not unlike the elliptical music of gossip: one violin excited to pass its small story along to the next violin and the next until, finally, come full circle, the whole conversation is changed. And I have to believe such music is at work at the deep... Read more »