The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The bee is not afraid of me, I know the butterfly; The pretty people in the woods Receive me cordially. The brooks laugh louder when I come, The breezes madder play. Wherefore, mine eyes, thy silver mists? Wherefore, O summer’s day?
They tell me that euphoria is the feeling of feeling wonderful, well, today I feel euphorian, Today I have the agility of a Greek god and the appetite of a Vic- torian. Yes, today I may even go forth without my galoshes, Today I am a swashbuckler, would anybody like me to buckle any swashes?... Read more »
I prefer to sit all day like a sack in a chair and to lie all night like a stone in my bed. When food comes I open my mouth. When sleep comes I close my eyes. My body sings only one song; the wind turns gray in my arms. Flowers bloom. Flowers die. More... Read more »
Once, in the yellow glow of the hay barn, my father and I met a stray, and that dog stayed and lived with us a while. I named him “Pal” because he was friendly and reminded me of a storybook dog. Even now I can see him sitting at my feet, his head tipped slightly... Read more »
When I was five, my father, who loved me, ran me over with a medium-sized farm tractor. I was lucky though; I tripped and slipped into a small depression, which caused the wheels to tread lightly on my leg, which had already been broken (when I was three) by a big dog, who liked to... Read more »
Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours Of young-leafed June With chestnut flowers, With hedges snowlike strewn, White lilac bowed, Lost lanes of Queen Anne’s lace, And that high-builded cloud Moving at summer’s pace.