The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by... Read more »
I won’t drink wine tonight I want to hear what is going on not in my own head but all around me. I sit for hours outside our house on Blind Mountain. Below this scrap of yard across the ragged old pasture, two horses move pulling grass into their mouths, tearing up wildflowers by the... Read more »
Just before the green begins there is the hint of green a blush of color, and the red buds thicken the ends of the maple’s branches and everything is poised before the start of a new world, which is really the same world just moving forward from bud to flower to blossom to fruit to... Read more »
My mother’s playing cards with my aunt, Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game my grandmother taught all her daughters. Midsummer: too hot to go out. Today, my aunt’s ahead; she’s getting the good cards. My mother’s dragging, having trouble with her concentration. She can’t get used to her own bed this summer. She... Read more »
The flower-fed buffaloes of the spring In the days of long ago, Ranged where the locomotives sing And the prairie flowers lie low: — The tossing, blooming, perfumed grass Is swept away by the wheat, Wheels and wheels and wheels spin by In the spring that still is sweet. But the flower-fed buffaloes of the... Read more »
Carrie and I were hanging our wash on the roof of the hostel in Riomaggiore—all we had carried in our packs while remaining half-dressed—when the Italian couple came up to shower. They shared a stall, not caring about us and our sodden rainbow of underwear on the line. From the roof we could see the... Read more »