The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Windows is shutting down, and grammar are On their last leg. So what am we to do? A letter of complaint go just so far, Proving the only one in step are you. Better, perhaps, to simply let it goes. A sentence have to be screwed pretty bad Before they gets to where you doesnt... Read more »
I have seldom loved more than one thing at a time, yet this morning I feel myself expanding, each part of me soft and glandular, and under my skin is. room enough now for the loving of many things, and all of them at once, these students especially, not only the girl in the yellow... Read more »
Shivering, you drag yourself, as if gun-shot, to the living room, to the old movie channel, to a Bogart festival, your mind fogged over (like the street on the screen) edging toward feverish sleep when Bogey snarls at Ida Lupino: “Of all the 14-carat saps…” Hours later when you wake, he’s smacking Peter Lorre: “When... Read more »
A second crop of hay lies cut and turned. Five gleaming crows search and peck between the rows. They make a low, companionable squawk, and like midwives and undertakers possess a weird authority. Crickets leap from the stubble, parting before me like the Red Sea. The garden sprawls and spoils. Across the lake the campers... Read more »
Tonight the first fall rain washes away my sly distance. I have decided to blame no one for my life. This water falls like a great privacy. Letters sink into the desk, The desk sinks away, leaving an intelligence Slowly learning to talk of its own suffering. The muttering of thunder is a gift That... Read more »
After midnight when the presses were rolling we would leave the Herald Tribune building and walk up to Times Square. The three of us would still be laughing and joking. I can see a sign that says Schenley. There are numbers high on a building telling the time, 12:27, the temperature, 36. We have the... Read more »