The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Along with his two surviving sisters, the five of us divided up the week, so that one of us would call my father every night at dinnertime. My night was Wednesday, and after we discussed the weather, and he expressed amazement that New Hampshire could have record-breaking rains while Maryland clung stubbornly to drought, he’d... Read more »
The dock is done, pulled out in the lake. How I love Putting my wet foot On the boards I sawed myself! It is a ladder stretching back to land… So many secrets are still hidden. A walker digs up a tin box with secrets And then joyfully buries it again So that the night... Read more »
The men in rural places when they stop to talk and visit will not stand, for that would make it seem they’re in a rush. Nor will they sit on ground that might be cold or wet. Instead they squat with dignity on heels close to the ground and chat for hours. And while they... Read more »
the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells, the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright as a box of crayons are now seed heads... Read more »
The place I lived as a child, the sharecropper’s farmhouse with its wind-bent mulberry trees and rusted farm machinery has completely vanished. Now there’s nothing but plowed fields for miles in any direction. When I asked around in town no one remembered the family. No way to verify my story. In fact, there’s no evidence... Read more »
Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle in such dress As they are used to wear, and let the boys Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers. Let be be finale of seem. The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.... Read more »