The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I can hear her through the thin wall, singing, up before the sun: two notes, a kind of hushed half-breathing, each time the baby makes that little moan— can hear her trying not to sing, then singing anyway, a thing so old it might as well be Hittite or Minoan, and so soft no one... Read more »
For weeks we learned the alphabet—practicing it, reciting in unison singsong, printing letters in block capitals on paper with wide blue lines, responding out loud to flash cards. Then she said: "Tomorrow you learn to read." Miss Stephanie Ford wrote on the blackboard in large square letters: T H A T. “That," she said, gesticulating... Read more »
for Jonathan Aaron It was late, and I was trying to remember what someone once said about our woes— how they rise out of our unwillingness to stay in our rooms. After which I opened the window, and both of us heard the rustling sounds outside, as if small furtive things were hurrying away, or... Read more »
The text of this poem is not available online.
Listen: there are those of us from somewhere else, the names of birthplaces, of hometowns, under our skin, tattoos always felt, never seen. We live here now, though we always meant to leave. And there are those of us who were born here, passing the landmarks of our lives so often we don’t think about... Read more »
There is a Smile of Love And there is a Smile of Deceit And there is a Smile of Smiles In which these two Smiles meet And there is a Frown of Hate And there is a Frown of disdain And there is a Frown of Frowns Which you strive to forget in vain For... Read more »