The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
At the old Polish gardener’s There’s a young cat A calico Living half-wild Under the potting shed Where she was born Her face is decorated With daubs and smudges And streaks of black As if she were made up to be a clown In some mysterious carnival I gaze at her in wonder She gazes... Read more »
What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what if When you awoke You had that flower in your hand Ah, what then?
It’s the immemorial feelings I like the best: hunger, thirst, their satisfaction; work-weariness, earned rest; the falling again from loneliness to love; the green growth the mind takes from the pastures in March; The gayety in the stride of a good team of Belgian mares that seems to shudder from me through all my ancestry.
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by... Read more »
My visiting tall son is sleepy. His sweet gape brings back his father’s yawn. Seeing our lost husband and lost father suddenly conjured up, I laugh. My son frowns. Does he think it’s at him I’m laughing? The cat opens her mouth to mew. The orphaned piano: it yawns too.
When they were little I read to them at night until my tongue got tired. They would poke me when I started to nod off after twenty pages of Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket. I read (to them) to get them to love reading but I was never sure if it was working or if... Read more »