The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
“Cold as the moon,” he’d mutter In the January of 5 A.M. and 15 below As he tried to tease the old Chev into greeting One more misanthropic morning. It was an art (though he never Used that curious word) as he thumped The gas pedal and turned the key So carefully while he held... Read more »
O my Luve is like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody, That’s sweetly play’d in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’... Read more »
The hard, yellow, reversible, wicker seats Sit in my mind’s warm eye, varnished row on row, In the old yellow childhood trolley At the end of the line at Cliff Street, where the conductor Swings the big wooden knob on the tall control box, Clangs the dishpan bell, and we wander off To tiptoe on... Read more »
They’re at that stage where so much desire streams between them, so much frank need and want, so much absorption in the other and the self and the self-admiring entity and unity they make— her mouth so full, breast so lifted, head thrown back so far in her laughter at his laughter, he so solid,... Read more »
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair’d the nameless grace Which... Read more »
Lord Byron died the very year that sperm were proved, beyond all doubt, to be essential to fertilization. No more virgin births. That year Beethoven’s Choral Symphony astounded the air. He was guided gently to face the audience that rose in an ovation he couldn’t hear. Tears were everywhere. Who remembers J.L. Prevost or J.B.... Read more »