The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
You know exactly what to do— Your kiss, your fingers on my thigh— I think of little else but you. It’s bliss to have a lover who, Touching one shoulder, makes me sigh— You know exactly what to do. You make me happy through and through, The way the sun lights up the sky— 1... Read more »
Winters when the Olentangy River froze deep enough, we cut the ice into blocks, hauled them on sleds to deep freeze storage. In our town, Shorty Vanetta, the ice man, muscled his pick and saw to cut the twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-pound cakes he hoisted to the thick leather pad on his shoulder. With his... Read more »
All day he’s shoveled green pine sawdust out of the trailer truck into the chute. From time to time he’s clambered down to even the pile. Now his hair is frosted with sawdust. Little rivers of sawdust pour out of his boots. I hope in the afterlife there’s none of this stuff he says, stripping... Read more »
We can’t hear what they’re saying, but that man is holding that woman in his arms. Your assignment is to deduce their thoughts from what they do. They’ve left no apparent space between their bodies. It could be called a close embrace, but notice her arms are at her sides, her hands relaxed, her face... Read more »
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves—goes itself; myself it... Read more »
One day, something very old happened again. The green came back to the branches, settling like leafy birds on the highest twigs; the ground broke open as dark as coffee beans. The clouds took up their positions in the deep stadium of the sky, gloving the bright orb of the sun before they pitched it... Read more »