The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I find, after all these years, I am a believer— I believe what the thunder and lightning have to say; I believe that dreams are real, and that death has two reprisals; I believe that dead leaves and black water fill my heart. I shall die like a cloud, beautiful, white, full of nothingness. The... Read more »
They lived without electricity. Their water came from a hand pump at the base of the windmill. A Nebraska farm, 1935. She said, you can’t miss what you never had. Drugstore goldfish in the water tank turned into giant orange and white carp, Koi prized in another country, another class. Her father threw them out... Read more »
At Mass the just-married couple hold hands in the pew. New to the parish, they sit in front of an elderly pair, soapy scent of a 40-year marriage, and behind a family whose eight-year-old leans under the seats to stare at the many ankles and shoes. They feel noticeable, awkward— familiar amid the statue of... Read more »
I didn’t stay for the closing hymns and prayers. I felt out of sorts, so I left. Someone was before me at the door: a child, gazing at a spot on her wrist. She said, “Can you help me?” “What is it?” “A ladybug,” she said. So I opened the door, and she said, “It... Read more »
Looking for something in the Sunday paper, I flipped by accident to Local Weddings, Yet missed the photograph until I saw Your name among the headings. And there you were, looking almost unchanged, Your hair still long, though now long out of style, And you still wore that stiff, ironic look That was your smile.... Read more »
By the first of August the invisible beetles began to snore and the grass was as tough as hemp and was no color—no more than the sand was a color and we had worn our bare feet bare since the twentieth of June and there were times we forgot to wind up your alarm clock... Read more »