The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
In a room with many windows some thoughts slide past uncatchable, ghostly. Three silent bicyclists. Slowly, a woman on crutches. It is like the night you slept out on the sandy edge of a creek bank, feeling the step of some light, clawed thing on your palm, crossing to drink. You were nothing to it.... Read more »
If you were a scoop of vanilla And I were the cone where you sat, If you were a slowly pitched baseball And I were the swing of a bat, If you were a shiny new fishhook And I were a bucket of worms, If we were a pin and a pincushion, We might be... Read more »
After writing for a week alone in my old shack, I guide the car through Ortonville around midnight. The policeman talks intently in his swivel chair. The light from above shines on his bald head. Soon the car picks up speed again beside the quarries. The moonspot on the steel tracks moves so fast! Thirty... Read more »
My father worked with a horse-plough, His shoulders globed like a full sail strung Between the shafts and the furrow. The horses strained at his clicking tongue. An expert. He would set the wing And fit the bright steel-pointed sock. The sod rolled over without breaking. At the headrig, with a single pluck Of reins,... Read more »
Unable to get into the Monet show, Too many people there, too many cars, We spent the Sunday morning at Bowl Pond A mile from the Museum, where no one was, And walked an hour or so around the rim Beside five acres of flowering waterlilies Lifting three feet above their floating pads Huge yellow... Read more »
Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear one more friend waking with a tumor, one more maniac with a perfect reason, often a sweetness has come and changed nothing in the world except the way I stumbled through it, for a while lost in the ignorance of loving someone or something, the world shrunk... Read more »