The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The day I learned my wife was dying I thought of all the words we’d never speak. Not just I love you or let’s go for a walk, but complaints and words from fights. How much I’d give to have her to tell me take out the garbage, pick up your books! I’d be eager... Read more »
In we shuffle, hooded amplitudes, scapulared brooms, a stray earring, skin-heads and flowing locks, blind in one eye, hooked-nosed, handsome as a prince (and knows it), a five-thumbed organist, an acolyte who sings in quarter tones, one slightly swollen keeper of the bees, the carpenter minus a finger here and there, our pre-senile writing deathless... Read more »
When you are expecting nothing a letter arrives and someone decides for you. Your arms fall to your sides, your hands open. You dress for the weather in your gold moccasins and prepare for long journeys to distant countries. The foxes who come out of the forests stall before you but do not startle. They... Read more »
Things weren’t very specific when I was in labor, yet everything was there, suddenly: all that my body had known, even things I’d only been reminded of occasionally, as when a stranger’s scent had reminded me of someone I’d known in the distant past. The few men I’d loved but didn’t marry. The time, living... Read more »
Whatever is too stupid to say can be sung. —JOSEPH ADDISON (1672-1719) The human voice can sing a vowel to break your heart. It trills a string of banal words, but your blood jumps, regardless. You don’t care about the words but only how they’re sung and the music behind—the brass, the drums. Oh the... Read more »
There should be a park bench. We’ll sit next to each other, watching a man throw a tennis ball to his yellow lab, sending and retrieving the dog whose loyalty to task is clear to both of them. I’ll say something to start, something I’ve wanted to say for years, words I’ve never before been... Read more »