The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I wish I could say I was the kind of child who watched the moon from her window, would turn toward it and wonder. I never wondered. I read. Dark signs that crawled toward the edge of the page. It took me years to grow a heart from paper and glue. All I had was... Read more »
You’re alone. Then there’s a knock On the door. It’s a word. You Bring it in. Things go OK for a while. But this word Has relatives. Soon They turn up. None of them work. They sleep on the floor, and they steal Your tennis shoes. You started it; you weren’t Content to leave things... Read more »
There are no creatures you cannot love. A frog calling at God From the moon-filled ditch As you stand on the country road in the June night. The sound is enough to make the stars weep With happiness. In the morning the landscape green Is lifted off the ground by the scent of grass. The... Read more »
Tonight, I am in love with poetry, with the good words that saved me, with the men and women who uncapped their pens and laid the ink on the blank canvas of the page. I am shameless in my love; their faces rising on the smoke and dust at the end of day, their sullen... Read more »
I’d done it again: locked out of my car that evening after the concert. No friendly red salute as I flicked the unlock icon. No keys and my stupid car remained indifferent while I made the dreaded phone call to my husband with the news and could he come to the rescue. The only bright... Read more »
She left him for her ex who played the 5-string banjo in a bluegrass band and whom she’d left for him—and not three months before—for a short sweet-smelling spring, wound him like a string around the tuning peg of her index, touched him and he stiffened, and he sang. And he broke down and wept... Read more »