The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
White roses, tiny and old, flare among thorns by the barn door. For a hundred years under the June elm, under the gaze of seven generations, they lived briefly like this, in the month of roses, by the fields stout with corn, or with clover and timothy making thick hay, grown over, now, with milkweed,... Read more »
There is so very little we can do, Friends, for these beautiful children of ours, They will come to grief and suffer and you And I bow to darkness and evil powers. The gentle boy who wrote poems goes For a walk in January and does not return. His mother and father search the woods.... Read more »
When it’s late at night and branches are banging against the windows, you might think that love is just a matter of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself into the fire of someone else, but it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s more like trading the two birds who might be hiding... Read more »
In life’s rough-and-tumble you’re the crumble on my apple crumble and the fairy on my Christmas tree! In life’s death-and-duty you’ve the beauty of the Beast’s own Beauty— I feel humble as a bumble-bee! In life’s darkening duel I’m the lighter, you’re the lighter fuel— And the tide that sways my inland sea! In life’s... Read more »
One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound... Read more »
If you stripped a dog of its social eagerness, gave it a loping indifference to human presence and starved it, you’d have a coyote, stalking like a shadow among the garbage cans at the top of Pearl Street, near the Fine Arts Work Center. We’re heading back to our car through a fine mist, the... Read more »