The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Watching the hands of my son kneading challah dough on the maple cutting board in my kitchen, a memory rises of my mother bending over our kitchen table in Flatbush, pressing, stretching, folding flour, water, eggs into a living elastic. Sometimes in my dreams, Mom appears, whispers of her mother in her kitchen in Zurawno... Read more »
Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be... Read more »
The elm tree is our highest mountain peak; A five-foot drop a valley, so to speak. A man’s head is an eminence upon A field of barley spread beneath the sun. Horizons have no strangeness to the eye. Our feet are sometimes level with the sky, When we are walking on a treeless plain, With... Read more »
There’s a tractor in the doorway of a church in Red Wing, Nebraska, in a coat of mud and straw that drags the floor. A broken plow sprawls beggarlike behind it on some planks that make a sort of roadway up the steps. The steeple’s gone. A black tar-paper scar that lightning might have made... Read more »
Moonlight fills the laurels Like music. The moonlit Air does not move. Your white Face moves towards my face. Voluptuous sorrow Holds us like a cobweb Like a song, a perfume, the moonlight. Your hair falls and holds our faces. Your lips curl into mine. Your tongue enters my mouth. A bat flies through the... Read more »
Life is absurd. A man can count on that. After the great triumph, you’re left standing alone, Standing on the corner, holding your hat, Trying to call a friend on your cell phone. Men my age are arrested for public exposure Who only needed to take a leak in the bushes. They didn’t run through... Read more »