The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The old men stood below the exit sign laughing and cussing as though they were in a well-lit bar—though they’d all given up drink years before. They cussed for the electricity of the words. Some, widowers who hadn’t kissed a woman in years, stroked the air with their hands. They didn’t touch one another. The... Read more »
My daughter’s morning streams over me like a gang of butterflies as I, sour-mouthed and not ready for the accidents I expect of my day, greet her early: her sparkle is as the edge of new ice on leafed pools, while I am soggy, tepid; old toast. Yet I am the first version of later... Read more »
No other word will do. For that’s what it was. Gravy. Gravy, these past ten years. Alive, sober, working, loving and being loved by a good woman. Eleven years ago he was told he had six months to live at the rate he was going. And he was going nowhere but down. So he changed... Read more »
All hallways still lead to that room with its ceiling so high it might have been a sky, and your metal bed by the window, and your crate of books. First, you must walk across the deep winter campus to find your friend throwing snowballs that float for years. Then, open our letters: shelves of... Read more »
Our bodies, lucent under the bedclothes, fit tightly like the pieces of a broken terra-cotta vase now newly mended, smooth surfaces, no jagged edges visible. I’ve read that countries were so interlocked before tectonic heavings, when the ocean parted Mexico and Mauritania. Brazil’s shoulder was hoisted to Nigeria, Italy pressed Libya, Alaska lay so close... Read more »
We turned into the drive, and gravel flew up from the tires like sparks from a fire. So much to be done—the unpacking, the mail and papers…the grass needed mowing…. We climbed stiffly out of the car. The shut-off engine ticked as it cooled. And then we noticed the pear tree, the limbs so heavy... Read more »