The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Gone the three ancient ladies Who creaked on the greenhouse ladders, Reaching up white strings To wind, to wind The sweet-pea tendrils, the smilax, Nasturtiums, the climbing Roses, to straighten Carnations, red Chrysanthemums; the stiff Stems, jointed like corn, They tied and tucked,— These nurses of nobody else. Quicker than birds, they dipped Up and... Read more »
After we picked you up at the Omaha airport, we clamped you into a new car seat and listened to you yowl beneath the streetlights of Nebraska. Our hotel suite was plump with toys, ready, we hoped, to soothe you into America. But for a solid hour you watched the door, shrieking, Umma, the Korean... Read more »
Each day was a time clock that scarcely moved, a slow fist punching us in, punching us out, electric heat smoldering in the purple air, but each night was a towering white fly ball to center field — “a can of corn” — coming down through stars glittering above the diamond. Each day was a... Read more »
My mother likes a man who works. She likes my husband’s muddy knees, grass stains on the cuffs. She loved my father, though when weekends came he’d sleep till nine and would not lift his eyes up from the page to move the feet she’d vacuum under. On Saturdays my husband digs the holes for... Read more »
The people along the sand All turn and look one way. They turn their back on the land. They look at the sea all day. As long as it takes to pass A ship keeps raising its hull; The wetter ground like glass Reflects a standing gull. The land may vary more; But wherever the... Read more »
I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things which I have... Read more »