The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain—and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the... Read more »
The rhododendron in Monroe from the picture window of my childhood home, that gave us, every year, its first bloom on the fourth of June. Lilacs every April, a constant hedge of baby’s breath. These things still happen in my absence. And, at the edge of the yard, where all my efforts cease, the wild... Read more »
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide. Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in... Read more »
On Friday afternoon David said he was divesting his holdings in Stephanie dot org. And Cindy announced she was getting rid of all her Dan-obelia, and did anyone want a tennis racket or a cardigan? Alice told Michael that she was transplanting herself to another brand of potting soil And Jason composed a 3-chord blues... Read more »
What a wonder I was when I was young, as I learn by the stern privilege of being old: how regardlessly I stepped the rough pathways of the hillside woods, treaded hardly thinking the tumbled stairways of the steep streams, and worked unaching hard days thoughtful only of the work, the passing light, the heat,... Read more »
A morning after a week of rain and the sun shot down through the branches into the tall, bare windows. The brindled cat rolled over on his back, and I could hear you in the kitchen grinding coffee beans into a powder. Everything seemed especially vivid because I knew we were all going to die,... Read more »