The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I’ll tell you how the Sun rose — A Ribbon at a time — The Steeples swam in Amethyst — The news, like Squirrels, ran — The Hills untied their Bonnets — The Bobolinks — begun — Then I said softly to myself — “That must have been the Sun”! But how he set —... Read more »
Strong coffee smells like a current of warm southerly air in the climate of dawn. Strong coffee gets stronger when poured back through the grounds. Opaque, thick, hot, bitter for waking up, the caffeine pumps through your center, stains your mouth with morning, with going to work, surprises you with your own breath.
When I wake up earlier than you and you are turned to face me, face on the pillow and hair spread around, I take a chance and stare at you, amazed in love and afraid that you might open your eyes and have the daylights scared out of you. But maybe with the daylights gone... Read more »
The people in the elevator all Face front, they all keep still, they all Look up with the rapt and stupid look of saints In paintings at the numbers that light up By turn and turn to tell them where they are. They are doing the dance, they are playing the game. To get here... Read more »
Three of my cousins are deaf. But I have lots of cousins, so the deaf ones were always in the minority at family gatherings where they’d commandeer a couch or the kitchen table and juggle their hands. It was a language the rest of us didn’t understand because we never bothered to learn it. Their... Read more »
I always have to be doing something, accomplishing some- thing, fixing something, going somewhere, feeling purposeful, useful, competent—even coughing, as I just did, gives me the satisfaction of having “just cleared something up.” The phone bill arrives and minutes later I’ve written the check. The world starts to go to war and I shout, “Hey,... Read more »