The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
The metal halo was bolted into his skull, little drills secured the scaffold, so his bones could rebuild themselves. How truly graced he must have been to survive a broken neck. Someday he’ll remember how he had to turn his whole body, caged, to watch the fruit vendor polish apples. His hair will cover the... Read more »
That bird sitting dazed on the railing has flown into your window before. The dead-end street you’ve turned onto— You did that just last month. The boss calling you into his office has nothing new to say. There are only so many scripts. Everything happens twice. The friend who borrows your raincoat will borrow your... Read more »
because the blue hills are like the shoulder and slopes of your back as you sleep. Often I slip a hand under your body to anchor myself to this earth. The yellow mustard rises from a waving sea of green. I think of us driving narrow roads in France, under a tunnel of sycamores, my... Read more »
First thing, she arranged us in rows at the front of the classroom, tallest in back, smallest in front. Next, she pulled the shining pitch- pipe from the hidden placket in her black linen habit, put it to her lips, then held it in front of her, put it back to her lips and blew.... Read more »
I My child and I hold hands on the way to school, And when I leave him at the first-grade door He cries a little but is brave; he does Let go. My selfish tears remind me how I cried before that door a life ago. I may have had a hard time letting go.... Read more »