The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I fall in love with that one glimpse of her from behind, something about the bend of her arm, the tilt of her head now, listening, or simply the weight and sheen of her hair, hoping sooner or later she may turn, that she might be someone I loved once, or the other me I... Read more »
They work with herbs and penicillin. They work with gentleness and the scalpel. They dig out the cancer, close an incision and say a prayer to the poverty of the skin. They are not Gods though they would like to be; they are only human trying to fix up a human. Many humans die. They... Read more »
I watched my father’s friends Roll cigarettes, when I was young Leaning against our black tarpaper shack. The wheatstraw grimy in their hands Talking of cars and tools and jobs Everybody out of work. the quick flip back And thin lick stick of the tongue, And a twist, and a fingernail flare of match. I... Read more »
If it’s the tide of a movie you expect everything to become important—a kiss, a shrug, a glass of wine, a walk with the dog. But if the day is real, life is only as significant as yesterday—the kiss hurried, the shrug forgotten, and now, on the path by the river, you don’t notice the... Read more »
My life was the size of my life. Its rooms were room-sized, its soul was the size of a soul. In its background, mitochondria hummed, above it sun, clouds, snow, the transit of stars and planets. It rode elevators, bullet trains, various airplanes, a donkey. It wore socks, shirts, its own ears and nose. It... Read more »
The teenagers are bored, having nowhere else to go, not wanting to go home to the drab familiarity of housing projects and apartment complexes. We too are directionless, but directionless in the same place and time—between jobs, between loves, between ambitions; we are loitering without intent. Hank Williams echoes from a small dusty speaker, quarters... Read more »