The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
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 »
everything here seems to need us Rainer Maria Rilke I can hardly imagine it as I walk to the lighthouse, feeling the ancient prayer of my arms swinging in counterpoint to my feet. Here I am, suspended between the sidewalk and twilight, the sky dimming so fast it seems alive. What if you felt the... Read more »
Late afternoons, we’d tuck up our hems under Minisa Bridge, scrape our white knees on scrub brush and drowned trees to slide down the dirt bank past milk-weed gone to seed, cattails and trash to sit on stones at the edge of the river and giggle and smoke, waiting to wolf-whistle North High’s rowing team.... Read more »
I have to believe a Beethoven string quartet is not unlike the elliptical music of gossip: one violin excited to pass its small story along to the next violin and the next until, finally, come full circle, the whole conversation is changed. And I have to believe such music is at work at the deep... Read more »
In June’s high light she stood at the sink With a glass of wine, And listened for the bobolink, And crushed garlic in late sunshine. I watched her cooking, from my chair. She pressed her lips Together, reached for kitchenware, And tasted sauce from her fingertips. “It’s ready now. Come on,” she said. “You light... Read more »
Day fourteen in the radiation waiting room and the elderly man sitting next to me says he gives thanks every day because he can still roll over and climb out of bed. We wear the same cotton gowns—repeating pattern of gold stars on a field of blue—that gape in back, leaving our goose bump flesh... Read more »