The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It never dies: the old gag where Wile E. Coyote, in hot pursuit of his rocketing foe, sprints off a cliff and keeps running on thin air till he happens to look down, nailing us every time with that why-me look in the drawn-out second after fortune’s yanked the rug; and then we follow the... Read more »
They’re wearing white shirts and their flowered ties hang on the brass doorknob. Uncle Floyd rubs the tip of his cue with a square of blue chalk, and Uncle Al leans over the table to take a shot, teeth clenched down on his cigar. I’m as tall as the pool table, and I can see... Read more »
I could feel, above me, the hunger in his stride, the fear that hurled him along an edge where toothaches, low pay, discipline problems in the classroom were shadows of an all-dissolving chaos. At his side, his shorter only offshoot, I both sheltered and cowered. He was fallible but doughty, even cocky as he drove... Read more »
An airport is nowhere which is not something generally noticed yet some unnamed person in the past deliberately planned it and you have spent time there again for something you have done which you do not entirely remember like the souls in Purgatory you sit there in the smell of what passes for food breathing... Read more »
When your privacy is beginning over, How beautiful the things are that you did not notice before! A few sweetclover plants Along the road to Bellingham, Culvert ends poking out of driveways, Wooden corncribs, slowly falling, What no one loves, no one rushes towards or shouts about, What lives like the new moon, And the... Read more »
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken. My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery like the houses I had grown up in, and if they would be torn down later... Read more »