The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Day fourteen in the radiation waiting room and the elderly man sitting next to me says he gives thanks every day because he can still roll over and climb out of bed. We wear the same cotton gowns—repeating pattern of gold stars on a field of blue—that gape in back, leaving our goose bump flesh... Read more »
I don’t yell. I don’t hold inside the day’s supply of frustrations. My hands stay open all day. I don’t wake tired and sore, dazed from senseless, panicking dreams. On the days I am not my father I hold my son when he cries, let him touch my face without flinching, lie down with him... Read more »
Of the light in my room: Its mood swings, Dark-morning glooms, Summer ecstasies. Spider on the wall, Lamp burning late, Shoes left by the bed, I’m your humble scribe. Dust balls, simple souls Conferring in the corner. The pearl earring she lost, Still to be found. Silence of falling snow, Night vanishing without trace, Only... Read more »
Sometimes I think we could have gone on. All of us. Trying. Forever. But they didn’t fill the desert with pyramids. They just built some. Some. They’re not still out there, building them now. Everyone, everywhere, gets up, and goes home. Yet we must not diabolize time. Right? We must not curse the passage of... Read more »
The older I get, the more I like hugging. When I was little the people hugging me were much larger. In their grasp I was a rag doll. In adolescence, my body was too tense to relax for a hug. Later, after the loss of virginity—which was anything but a loss—the extreme proximity of the... Read more »
It’s Bloomsday in Dublin and wherever Ulysses works as an advertising man with an unfaithful wife as I sit here listening to a lecture on Flannery O’Connor, Frank O’Connor, and the O’Hara boys, John and Frank, I think of going to Dublin with you buying a toy wedding ring at Woolworth’s and the phrase “mock... Read more »