The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Decades after I quit, I still dream of lighting a cigarette and even in sleep feel my fingers curve to grip the filter tip of a Newport, recall the arc I traced, groove of hand to lip. Do I miss smoking or the girl who smoked, who tucked a buck in the pocket of her... Read more »
This year we have two gorgeous yellow warblers nesting in the honeysuckle bush. The other day I stuck my head in the bush. The nestlings weigh one-twentieth of an ounce, about the size of a honeybee. We stared at each other, startled by our existence. In a month or so, when they reach the size... Read more »
I just remembered a serious argument. On my seventy-fifth birthday I had the firm sense that I was a hundred seventy-five. She disagreed. “Look at your driver’s license,” she said. I said you know the state of Montana took my license from me. She went to my briefcase and got out my passport. “You’re a... Read more »
My only purpose this moment is looking at a lizard. Does he know he’s not alone? He breathes with tiny push-ups, his skin all hairline caverns soaking up the sun. I doubt, alive, I’m liable to get closer to timelessness than this, looking at a little lizard breathing.
Because love has its own grammar, its own sentences, some that run-on too long, others just fragments. It uses a language not always appropriate or too informal, and often lacks clarity. Love is punctuated all wrong, changes tenses abruptly, relies heavily on the first person, can be redundant, awkward, full of unnecessary repetition. Every word... Read more »
There is a country to cross you will find in the corner of your eye, in the quick slip of your foot—air far down, a snap that might have caught. And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing voice that finds its way by being afraid. That country is there, for us, carried as... Read more »