The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Now constantly there is the sound, quieter than rain, of the leaves falling. Under their loosening bright gold, the sycamore limbs bleach whiter. Now the only flowers are beeweed and aster, spray of their white and lavender over the brown leaves. The calling of a crow sounds Loud — landmark — now that the life... Read more »
We’ve had this conversation before, my daughter and I, many times, about what she might buy with her allowance, about candy, about how her brother annoys her, about where her birth mother might be, and we’ve had this conversation before, my son and I, many times, about how fast he is, how fast horses are,... Read more »
The carousel and bumper cars were long gone. Seidel’s Skee Ball, the five-cent fortune telling machine, Izzy’s Knishes, the shooting gallery, teenage crooners harmonizing at Waller’s frozen custard stand: I saw them all vanish when I was still a boy. The three-story concrete watchtower that protected us from Nazi submarines was rubble. I played at... Read more »
My stepdaughter and I circle round and round. You see, I like the music loud, the speakers throbbing, jam-packing the room with sound whether Bach or rock and roll, the volume cranked up so each bass note is like a hand smacking the gut. But my stepdaughter disagrees. She is four and likes the music... Read more »
If you live to be very old, you may see twelve hundred full moons. Some come in winter and you trudge out into the deep snow to stand beneath their glow. Others come to you in the city and you take an elevator up to the roof of the highest building and set out a... Read more »
Little flower, you live in constant danger: Likely to be crushed under foot or torn by wind, Sun-scorched or gobbled by a goat. These October days streaked with regrets and tears Are like you, brindled flower, as they bloom And fade, harried by heat as much as by the cold. Our ship sets out to... Read more »