The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say, but it’s true. The prince is so boring: four hours to dress and then the cheering throngs. Again. The page who holds the door is cute enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming kisses my forehead goodnight? Every morning I gaze out a casement... Read more »
This happened before I met your mother: I took Jennie Johanson to a summer dance, and she sent me a letter, a love letter, I guess, even if the word love wasn’t in it. She wrote that she had a good time and didn’t want the night to end. At home, she lay down on... Read more »
Each night after reading three books to my two children— we each picked one—to unwind them into dreamland, I’d turn off the light and sit between their beds in the wide junk shop rocker I’d reupholstered blue, still feeling the close-reading warmth of their bodies beside me, and ask them to talk about the day—we... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
My grandparents owned the land, worked the land, bound to the earth by seasons of planting and harvest. They watched the sky, the habits of birds, hues of sunset, the moods of moon and clouds, the disposition of air. They inhaled the coming season, let it brighten their blood for the work ahead. Soil sifted... Read more »
The road crew hired temps between semesters to stand beside the hopper shoveling. The foreman disliked college students. He never learned our names, referenced us by the tools we carried—Skip and I were Shovels, scraping the hot mix into the conveyor. Ronnie the college drop-out advanced to Rake. He followed the paver, flicking the screed... Read more »