The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I was at a camp in the country, you were home in the city, and bad news had come to you. You texted me as I sat with others around a campfire. It had been a test you and I hadn’t taken seriously, hadn’t worried about. You texted the bad news word cancer. I read... Read more »
No Ansel Adams but the snapshots we captured through the open car window on our eight megapixel cell phones on the side of the road off an exit ramp as truck taillights streaked eastbound opposite the earth’s rotation in startling calm that evening a mere dot-glow above dun fields Look, life is like this, filled... Read more »
You tell me when you were eight, newly arrived from Czechoslovakia, your teacher made you memorize a poem that began “I remember, I remember the house where I was born.” Stranger to our language you proudly learned all the verses, practiced them over and over in front of your mirror, but at the program when... Read more »
My mother, when young, scrubbed laundry in a tub, She and her sisters on an old brick walk Under the apple trees, sweet rub-a-dub. The bees came round their heads, the wrens made talk. Four young ladies each with a rainbow board Honed their knuckles, wrung their wrists to red, Tossed back their braids and... Read more »
I’m out with the wheelbarrow mixing mulch. A mockingbird trills in the pine. Then, from higher, a buzz, and through patches of blue as the fog burns off, a small plane pulls a banner, red letters I can’t read— but I do see, over the fence, a man in a sky-blue shirt walking his dog... Read more »
As soon as the snow melts the grass begins to grow. Even though the daytime high is barely above freezing, even though May is very like November, marsh marigolds bloom in the swamp and the popple trees produce a faint green that hangs under the low clouds like a haze over the valley. This is... Read more »