The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Seeing the snowman standing all alone In dusk and cold is more than he can bear. The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare A night of gnashings and enormous moan. His tearful sight can hardly reach to where The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes Returns him such a god-forsaken stare As outcast Adam... Read more »
At recess a boy ran to me with a pink rubber ball and asked if I would kick it to him. He handed me the ball, then turned and ran and ran and ran, not turning back until he was far out in the field. I wasn’t sure I could kick the ball that far.... Read more »
Of course it was doomed. I know that now, but it ended so quickly, and I was young. I hardly remember that summer in Seattle— except for her. The city seems just a rainy backdrop. From the moment I first saw her at the office I was hooked. I started visiting her floor. I couldn’t... Read more »
If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee. If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me, ye women, if you can. I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is... Read more »
This is the hall of broken limbs Where splintered marble athletes lie Beside the arms of cherubim. Nothing is ever thrown away. These butterflies are set in rows. So small and gray inside their case They look alike now. I suppose Death makes most creatures commonplace. These portraits here of the unknown Are hung three... Read more »
I hear the music of seven languages on a four-block stretch of Harvard Square, see the copper glow of the Hancock Tower at sunset, feel the familiar bump of cobblestones under my feet. Mark Twain said people in New York ask “How much is he worth?” while Bostonians ask “How much does he know?” That... Read more »