The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Too bad you weren’t here six months ago, was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska. You could have seen the astonishing spectacle of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River. There was no point in pointing out the impossibility of my being... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and... Read more »
In Baton Rouge, there was a DJ on the soul station who was always urging his listeners to “take it on home to Jerome.” No one knew who Jerome was. And nobody cared. So it didn’t matter. I was, what, ten, twelve? I didn’t have anything to take home to anyone. Parents and teachers told... Read more »
The summer of my mother’s illness, a season so hot and dry it might have erupted in flames, we discovered the dog liked television. She barked if we left her alone in the dim silence of the bedroom but was cheerful if we provided a documentary about whales. She learned why prehistoric wolves were likely... Read more »
The young service manager comes round to explain, as if someone were dying, what will have to be done. “It’s more,” he says, “than we thought.” I want to tell him it’s all right, I’ve heard worse; we’re all orphans here. Live long enough, you might as well be a spider in a corner of... Read more »