The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I like to say hello and goodbye. I like to hug but not shake hands. I prefer to wave or nod. I enjoy the company of strangers pushed together in elevators or subways. I like talking to cab drivers but not receptionists. I like not knowing what to say. I like talking to people I... Read more »
Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days. Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals. Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices. Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way for the dim glow... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
The older children pedal past Stable as little gyros, spinning hard To supper, bath, and bed, until at last We also quit, silent and tired Beside the darkening yard where trees Now shadow up instead of down. Their predictable lengths can only tease Her as, head lowered, she walks her bike alone Somewhere between her... Read more »
From a window, the boss calls to us where we load his truck with bricks. “Turn around fellas—look.” A pheasant wades through the brown grass across the street, vanishing and emerging from the tangle. A shed leans near a phone pole. Bumpers glint from the weeds. Blocks from the old foundation angle through the earth.... Read more »
Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white... Read more »