The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Will I ever be as funny as my mother at ninety? I hope so, for everyone’s sake, especially mine. This woman, who swims, learns Spanish, cooks for herself, and works Thursdays at the library — this very Mother — burps after every bite, wets her pants, washes them, sports a hearing aid that screeches carols,... Read more »
Each morning my characters greet me with misty faces willing, though chilled, to muster for another day’s progress through dazzling quicksand, the march of blank paper. With instant obedience they change clothes and mannerisms, drop a speech impediment, develop a motive backwards to suit the deed’s done. They extend skeletal arms for the handcuffs of... Read more »
They didn’t come for the bananas, but everyone who came through that hole in the wall wanted one, the West ready with its Welkommen! mountains of yellow. After twenty-eight years of concrete-cold days and only those few flowers defiant in the cracks of denial, imagine the yellow-fresh sight, that spike on the tongue, the fireworks... Read more »
It’s ripe strawberries that bring me to my knees in the garden this morning, impossibly big and red as those on the covers of gardening magazines in January and almost as sweet as the small wild ones my brother and I picked up on Best’s Hill, eating more than we dropped into the coffee cans... Read more »
After the biopsy, after the bonescan, after the consult and the crying, for a few hours no one could find them, not even my sister, because it turns out they’d gone to the movies. Something tragic was playing, something epic, and so they went to the comedy with their popcorn and their cokes— the old... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.