The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I was feeling pretty religious standing on the bridge in my winter coat looking down at the gray water: the sharp little waves dusted with snow, fish in their tin armor. That’s what I like about disappointment: the way it slows you down, when the querulous insistent chatter of desire goes dead calm and the... Read more »
Doing without is an interesting custom, involving such in- visible items as the food that’s not on the table, the clothes that are not on the back the radio whose only music is silence. Doing without is a great protector of reputations since all places one cannot go are fabulous, and only the rare and... Read more »
Fair is my love that feeds among the lilies, The lilies growing in the pleasant garden, Where Cupid’s mount, that well-beloved hill is, And where that little god himself is warden. See where my love sits in the beds of spices, Beset all round with camphor, myrrh and roses, And interlac’d with curious devices, Which... Read more »
Our upstate April is cold and gray. Nevertheless yesterday I found up in our old woods on the littered ground dogtooth violets standing around and blooming wisely. And by the edge of the Bo’s road at the far side of the meadow where the limestone ledge crops out our wild cherry trees were making a... Read more »
I wanted to go on an immense journey, to travel night and day into the unknown until, forgetting my old self, I came into possession of a new self, one that I might have missed on my previous travels. But the first step was beyond me. I lay in bed, unable to move, pondering, as... Read more »
Some nights I think of it, moving to Malibu, just as I stretch, like a cat stretches, to my full length, as though I am easing into cool waters. I imagine the blue of the sea; the bright green leaves of the geranium on the patio, the bright pink blooms, the yellow sun and white... Read more »