The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I, having loved ever since I was a child a few things, never having wavered In these affections; never through shyness in the houses of the rich or in the presence of clergymen· having denied these loves; Never when worked upon by cynics like chiropractors having grunted or clicked a vertebra to the discredit of... Read more »
When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don’t stand still and look around On all the hills I haven’t hoed, And shout from where I am, ‘What is it?’ No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the... Read more »
She taught me linking verbs, predicate nouns, long division, have a Kleenex ready, an apple a day. She taught me three-quarter time, Greenwich Mean Time. She taught me do re mi, Mexicali Rose, Rose, Rose, my Rose of San Antone. She taught me Peas Peas Peas Peas, Eating Goober Peas. She taught me that a... Read more »
It’s the kind of mid-January afternoon— the sky as calm as an empty bed, fields indulgent, black Angus finally sitting down to chew— that makes a girl ride her bike up and down the same muddy track of road between the gray barn and the state highway all afternoon, the black mutt with the white... Read more »
I have just crossed the Rio Grande, And by a string of clever switchbacks Have, for the moment, outwitted the posse. Ahead lie the ghosts of Sierra Madre. Behind, I have nothing but sun, While the condor’s shadow circles over my bones. Though the mountains are steep, my horse doesn’t falter, And now I know... Read more »
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has... Read more »