The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Trucks roll down I-5, trailers full of tomatoes. Almost always they’ll spill a few as they round a corner, hard, small fruit bouncing over asphalt, a bright scattering of red on the road’s shoulder of star thistle and tarweed. Maybe you left the house angry over an argument with your wife, words in the air... Read more »
During Harriet’s memorial service, Frances leaned, put her head on my shoulder and died—quietly as if she didn’t want to interrupt Harriet’s program. The minister didn’t see us, no one knew except me. At the piano, Mary played the introduction to Going Home. Everyone thumbed their hymnals for page two hundred forty-three. I didn’t know... Read more »
I went dancing in Stockholm at a public dancing place Out-of-doors. It was a beautiful summer evening, Summer as it could only come in Sweden in nineteen-fifty. You had to be young to go there. Or maybe you could be old. But I didn’t even see old people then. Humanity was divided into male and... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
In the tower the bell is alone, like a man in his room, thinking and thinking. The bell is made of iron. It takes the weight of a man to make the bell move. Far below, the bell feels hands on a rope. It considers this. It turns its head. Miles away, a man in... Read more »
Atop the ridge near the driveway, small ramparts of sandy dirt behind her, a snapping turtle lays her eggs at dusk. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, blink with boredom at her audience. Supreme in her ill-chosen spot, her helmet of stink, the algae like wet war ribbons clinging to her carapace, she appears exhausted with ancientness. Behind... Read more »