The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It’s funny how if you just let go of things they will come to you. That is to say sometimes. So what good is such a generalization? Ah, it makes you feel good to say such things from time to time, as if you actually and really and truly knew something!
She gets off the bus and they kiss. It’s a hard embrace. Then he walks on the balls of his feet like a basketball star, and contorts himself into the driver’s seat of a compact car. She stands outside, averts her face, wipes her lips with the back of her hand as if to erase... Read more »
As if you needed one, as if you could help it, for no good reason a tune out of nowhere pops into your head when you least expect, riffs effortlessly in the folds of your cerebrum— your own private jukebox, your personal music device on random minus the earbuds— drumming itself up to keep you... Read more »
No jump-starting the day, no bare feet slapping the floor to bath and breakfast. Dozing instead in the nest like, I suppose, a pair of gophers underground in fuzz and wood shavings. One jostles the other in closed-eye luxury. We are at last perhaps what we are: uncombed, unclothed, mortal. Pulse and breath and dream.
The elms stretched themselves in indolent joy, arching over the street that lay in green shadow under their loose tent. And the roses in Mrs. Mix’s yard pretzeled up her trellis with pink Limoges cabbage blooms like Rubens’ nudes. My lips whispered over the names of things in the meadows, in the orchard, in the... Read more »
It was hard work, dying, harder than anything he’d ever done. Whatever brutal, bruising, back- breaking chore he’d forced himself to endure—it was nothing compared to this. And it took so long. When would the job be over? Who would call him home for supper? And it was hard for us (his children)— all of... Read more »