The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
A second crop of hay lies cut and turned. Five gleaming crows search and peck between the rows. They make a low, companionable squawk, and like midwives and undertakers possess a weird authority. Crickets leap from the stubble, parting before me like the Red Sea. The garden sprawls and spoils. Across the lake the campers... Read more »
Tonight the first fall rain washes away my sly distance. I have decided to blame no one for my life. This water falls like a great privacy. Letters sink into the desk, The desk sinks away, leaving an intelligence Slowly learning to talk of its own suffering. The muttering of thunder is a gift That... Read more »
After midnight when the presses were rolling we would leave the Herald Tribune building and walk up to Times Square. The three of us would still be laughing and joking. I can see a sign that says Schenley. There are numbers high on a building telling the time, 12:27, the temperature, 36. We have the... Read more »
We rented a room from an English violinist and shared the kitchen that filled the second floor. We had until the lessons downstairs were finished to cook and eat our dinner before he started his. Married now and beginning to show, I took the train to London every day and joined the crowd perched on... Read more »
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound... Read more »
Here everything is white and clean as driftwood. Pain’s localized and suffering, strictly routine, goes on behind a modest screen. Softly the nurses glide on wheels, crackle like windy sails, smelling of soap, I’m needled and the whole room reels. The Fury asks me how I feel and, grinning turns to the brisk care of... Read more »