The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake, up to my neck in that most precious dement of all, I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather floating on the tension of the water at the very instant when a dragonfly, like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin, hovered over it, then lit, and rested. That’s... Read more »
There is weather on the day you are born and weather on the day you die. There is the year of drought, and the year of floods, when everything rises and swells, the year when winter will not stop falling, and the year when summer lightning burns the prairie, makes it disappear. There are the... Read more »
We live in a world of singers and the song is loud or soft, sweet or shrill, sometimes silent. But listen. With a storm approaching someone shelters a robin’s nest. Another whistles to a black dog on the beach. One laughs to herself, reading alone in the kitchen. In the woodlot someone grunts as he... Read more »
Winter is black and beige down here from drought. Suddenly in March there’s a good rain and in a coup1e of weeks we are enveloped in green. Green everywhere in the mesquites, oaks, cottonwoods, the bowers of thick willow bushes the warblers love for reasons of food or the branches, the tiny aphids they cat... Read more »
My brother calls, which causes me anxiety, partly because I don’t like phone ca1ls, but mostly because he grumbles about how he can’t find a job, how his truck won’t start, how his wife’s car needs a new transmission. About how his wife is a bitch, and I want to say, Don’t talk like that.... Read more »
The world is full of mostly invisible things, And there is no way but putting the mind’s eye, Or its nose, in a book, to find them out, Things like the square root of Everest Or how many times Byron goes into Texas, Or whether the law of the excluded middle Applies west of the... Read more »