The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
After a friend has gone I like the feel of it: The house at night. Everyone asleep. The way it draws in like atmosphere or evening. One-o-clock. A floral teapot and a raisin scone. A tray waits to be taken down. The landing light is off. The clock strikes. The cat comes into his own,... Read more »
When I am alone I am happy. The air is cool. The sky is flecked and splashed and wound with color. The crimson phalloi of the sassafras leaves hang crowded before me in shoals on the heavy branches. When I reach my doorstep I am greeted by the happy shrieks of my children and my... Read more »
A cold wind flows over the cornfields; Fleets of blackbirds ride that ocean. I want to be out of here, go out, Outdoors, anywhere in wind. My back against a shed wall, I settle Down where no one can find me. I stare out at the box-elder leaves Moving frond-like in that mysterious water. What... Read more »
I grew up with horses and poems when that was the time for that. Then Ginsberg and Orlovsky in the Fillmore West when everybody was dancing. I sat in the balcony with my legs pushed through the railing, watching Janis Joplin sing. Women have houses now, and children. I live alone in a kind of... Read more »
I. Solemnly, mournfully, Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light; Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire; Sound fades into silence, All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in... Read more »
In the pantry the dear dense cheeses, Cheddars and harsh Lancashires; Gorgonzola with its magnanimous manner; the clipped speech of Roquefort; and a head of Stilton that speaks in a sensuous riddling tongue like Druids. O cheeses of gravity, cheeses of wistfulness, cheeses that weep continually because they know they will die. O cheeses of... Read more »