The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I leave behind even my walking stick. My knife is in my pocket, but that I have forgot. I bring no car, no cell phone, no computer, no camera, no CD player, no fax, no TV, not even a book. I go into the woods. I sit on a log provided at no cost. It... Read more »
The guitarists were sitting around in somebody’s basement room discussing their fingernails. They were comparing the length of their fingernails, they were expounding upon the strength of fingernails, they were trading chilling tales of broken fingernails. The guitarists were filing the ragged ends of their fingernails grown long on one hand only, telltale sign, badge... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
The metal halo was bolted into his skull, little drills secured the scaffold, so his bones could rebuild themselves. How truly graced he must have been to survive a broken neck. Someday he’ll remember how he had to turn his whole body, caged, to watch the fruit vendor polish apples. His hair will cover the... Read more »
That bird sitting dazed on the railing has flown into your window before. The dead-end street you’ve turned onto— You did that just last month. The boss calling you into his office has nothing new to say. There are only so many scripts. Everything happens twice. The friend who borrows your raincoat will borrow your... Read more »
because the blue hills are like the shoulder and slopes of your back as you sleep. Often I slip a hand under your body to anchor myself to this earth. The yellow mustard rises from a waving sea of green. I think of us driving narrow roads in France, under a tunnel of sycamores, my... Read more »