The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can... Read more »
We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos I’d seen I knew this was the place. The house and barn were painted in the traditional Falu red, trimmed with white. It was nearly mid- summer, the trees and grass, lush green, when we arrived the family was gathered at a table on the lawn... Read more »
The old men stood below the exit sign laughing and cussing as though they were in a well-lit bar—though they’d all given up drink years before. They cussed for the electricity of the words. Some, widowers who hadn’t kissed a woman in years, stroked the air with their hands. They didn’t touch one another. The... Read more »
My daughter’s morning streams over me like a gang of butterflies as I, sour-mouthed and not ready for the accidents I expect of my day, greet her early: her sparkle is as the edge of new ice on leafed pools, while I am soggy, tepid; old toast. Yet I am the first version of later... Read more »
No other word will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy. Gravy, these past ten years. Alive, sober, working, loving and being loved by a good woman. Eleven years ago he was told he had six months to live at the rate he was going. And he was going nowhere but down. So he changed... Read more »
All hallways still lead to that room with its ceiling so high it might have been a sky, and your metal bed by the window, and your crate of books. First, you must walk across the deep winter campus to find your friend throwing snowballs that float for years. Then, open our letters: shelves of... Read more »