The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Each afternoon he took his pipe and led his goats beyond the pasture to a neighbor’s field behind his farm— not exactly his but not exactly not. As the goats dipped the tall grasses, he sat in the chair he never failed to bring. Sometimes he read, most often not. The vetch climbed the goldenrod,... Read more »
Which once belonged to your great- grandparents, but belongs to us now, and still works, even if the cushions are pretty well flattened and the stuffing is coming out from one armrest, and the color, which was probably once cream with red stitching, has become mostly a muddy rust — and which is always called... Read more »
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, And all the trouble... Read more »
O my love The pretty towns All the blue tents of our nights together And the lilies and the birds glad in our joy The road through the forest Where the surly wolf lived And the snow at the top of the mountain And the little Rain falling on the roofs of the village O... Read more »
All those loose threads from her sewing, trailing off bobbins toward Chattanooga, Nashville, Myrtle Beach, Niagara Falls. She snapped them at the hem with her teeth, those worn hitching posts. She never learned to drive. Didn’t leave Grandma’s yard for thirty years. Her Singer just hummed. She never stopped wearing that engagement ring he gave... Read more »
At dusk, by the irrigation ditch gurgling past backyards near the highway, locusts raise a maze of calls in cottonwoods. A Spanish girl in a white party dress strolls the levee by the muddy water where her small sister plunks in stones. Beyond a low adobe wall and a wrecked car men are pitching horseshoes... Read more »