The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It was the summer of lemons being replaced by oranges. Lemons, they said, had lost something that lemons sometimes lose. Painters piled Navels and Valencias, mixed red into yellow for Still Life with Oranges; the wooden bowl beautiful with lonely cracks, organic with time and handling. Evening, men and women squeezed wedges from the larger... Read more »
Your baby grows a tooth, then two, and four, and five, then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It’s all over: she’ll learn some words, she’ll fall in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet talker on his way to jail. And you, your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue nothing. You did, you... Read more »
I heard the mother in the row behind me explain the safety instructions to her small noisy children. I began to calculate how much time I have spent listening to an automated voice tell me how to identify the best exit routes, how to use the seat as a flotation device, how to place the... Read more »
There are too many poems on the subject of sorrow. Why pile one more on this dung heap of sorrow? Once upon a time always promises wonder. We remember, too late, the breadcrumb-less woods of sorrow. You fall asleep nightly rehearsing a lie: Tomorrow I’ll end it, my love affair with sorrow. A woman is... Read more »
One minute I’m meandering down a country road on a magnificent fall day, lost in thought, radio playing, and the next minute I feel my wheels on the loose gravel of the shoulder, there’s a deafening bang and I’m climbing out of what’s left of my car. The cop who came to investigate was pretty... Read more »
In the morning as the storm begins to blow away the clear sky appears for a moment and it seems to me that there has been something simpler than I could ever believe simpler than I could have begun to find words for not patient not even waiting no more hidden than the air itself... Read more »