The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Praise be this morning for sleeping late, the sandy sheets, the ocean air, the midnight storm that blew its waters in. Praise be the morning swim, mid-tide, the clear sands underneath our feet, the dogs who leap into the waves, their fur, sticky with salt, the ball we throw again and again. Praise be the... Read more »
It wasn’t that he wanted to take his life. He wanted to take his death into his own hands. There was a difference, he knew, though he couldn’t articulate it. More speculative than suicidal, more curious than depressed, more interested than not, he didn’t want to talk to a therapist. He wanted to talk to... Read more »
No one microwaves leftovers, we order in. I haven’t prayed since 1996. In temple the cantor was always tuning her guitar & the metal folding chairs squeaked. Is hypnosis dead? I feel about as sexual as a frying pan. At this age Sylvia had sheaves of poems, two kids &— my aura drips like a... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep... Read more »
Most of my life was spent building a bridge out over the sea though the sea was too wide. I’m proud of the bridge hanging in the pure sea air. Machado came for a visit and we sat on the end of the bridge, which was his idea. Now that I’m old the work goes... Read more »