The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Your mother complains about my snoring, Father said, but she forgets to mention the times I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound celery makes when you bite into it. At first I thought it was a tree falling on the house. I almost jumped out of bed, but when I... Read more »
Because of the menace your father opened like a black umbrella and held high over your childhood blocking the light, your life now seems to you exceptional in its simplicities. You speak of this, throwing the window open on a plain spring day, dazzling after such a winter.
Too bad you weren’t here six months ago, was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska. You could have seen the astonishing spectacle of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River. There was no point in pointing out the impossibility of my being... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and... Read more »
In Baton Rouge, there was a DJ on the soul station who was always urging his listeners to “take it on home to Jerome.” No one knew who Jerome was. And nobody cared. So it didn’t matter. I was, what, ten, twelve? I didn’t have anything to take home to anyone. Parents and teachers told... Read more »