The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
A rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was polished until it became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a night in Venice when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was polished until it ceased to be and... Read more »
It was as if while I was driving down a one-lane dirt road with tall pines on both sides the landscape had a syntax similar to that of our language and as I moved along a long sentence was being spoken on the right and another on the left and I thought Maybe the landscape... Read more »
No more than a week and the leaves have all come out on the ash trees now they are more than half open on the ancient walnuts standing alone in the field reaching up through the mute amazement of age they have uncurled on the oaks from hands small as the eyelids of birds and... Read more »
With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale. My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed... Read more »
I remember the lakes of my Michigan childhood. Here they are called ponds. Lakes belonged to summer, two-week vacations that my father was granted by Westinghouse when we rented some cabin. Never mind the dishes with spiderweb cracks, the crooked aluminum sauce pans, the crusted black frying pans. Never mind the mattresses shaped like the... Read more »
When from our better selves we have too long Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, How gracious, how benign is Solitude! —Hermit Deep in the bosom of the Wilderness; Votary (in vast Cathedral, where no foot Is treading and no other face is seen) Kneeling... Read more »