The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The daylight is huge. Five a.m. and the sky already blushing gray. Mornings so full of blue the clouds almost sheepish as they wisp over hills. High noon only happens in June, mid-day a tipping point, the scale weighed down on both sides with blazed hours. And the evenings— so drawn out the land lies... Read more »
When I was younger it was plain to me I must make something of myself. Older now I walk back streets admiring the houses of the very poor: roof out of line with sides the yards cluttered with old chicken wire, ashes, furniture gone wrong; the fences and outhouses built of barrel staves and parts... Read more »
You said you’d pick up cheese at Lucca’s in the Mission, came home with fresh-cut Sonoma Jack, aged Swiss, that delicious creamy goat cheese we spread on bagels at breakfast. Let’s go again, both of us, to San Francisco, buy a loaf of Boudin’s sourdough rye, pack a basket of bread and cheese, fruit, a... Read more »
Lying here quietly beside you, My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs, The calm music of Boccherini Washing over us in the quiet, As the sun leaves the housetops and goes Out over the Pacific, quiet— So quiet the sun moves beyond us, So quiet as the sun always goes, So quiet, our bodies, worn... Read more »
Temperature in the upper seventies, a bit of a breeze. Great cumulus clouds pass slowly through the summer sky like parade floats. And the slender grasses gather round you, pressing forward, with exaggerated deference, whispering, eager to catch a glimpse. It’s your party after all. And it couldn’t be more perfect. Yet there’s a nagging... Read more »
When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green; And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen; Then hey for boot and horse, lad, And round the world away; Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day. When all the world is old, lad,... Read more »