The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
O Star (the fairest one in sight), We grant your loftiness the right To some obscurity of cloud— It will not do to say of night, Since dark is what brings out your light. Some mystery becomes the proud. But to be wholly taciturn In your reserve is not allowed. Say something to us we... Read more »
Daily dawns another day; I must up, to make my way. Though I dress and drink and eat, Move my fingers and my feet, Learn a little, here and there, Weep and laugh and sweat and swear, Hear a song, or watch a stage, Leave some words upon a page, Claim a foe, or hail... Read more »
are having a sort of coffee klatch as they clean calling across the corridors in their rich contraltos while luffing fresh sheets in the flickering gloom of the turgid passionate soaps they follow from room to room. In Atlanta they are black, young, with eloquent eyes. In Toledo white, middle-aged, wearing nurses’ shoes. In El... Read more »
Maybe if we all become that second baseman who sprinted right, dove, snagged the grounder, thudded to a stop, too late to get up or change hands, too late to do anything but what he could not do, had never tried, could not have done if he had tried: shovel the gloved ball backhanded over... Read more »
Before the age of doing and photographing and filming and texting what you did, back when people simply did, a girl got married at seventeen, recalled tonight under lamplight in an Ozark farmhouse by my old, widowed Aunt Dot, the woman who once was her. There were no photos of the girl as she waited... Read more »
Toward the end of August I begin to dream about fall, how this place will empty of people, the air will get cold and leaves begin to turn. Everything will quiet down, everything will become a skeleton of its summer self. Toward the end of August I get nostalgic for what’s to come, for that... Read more »