The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;— Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things which I have... Read more »
Nobody rules. They all take turns. I can never tell who will chase who playing war over the couch and chairs, round and round again until suddenly they stop as if a whistle blew in their heads. Five of them, aged fifteen to two. Who will curl together making one cushion of patchwork fur? Who... Read more »
The trees, slipping across the fields, changing places with barns and silos, the hills, rolling over on command, their bellies green and leafy, the sun-tiger, riding on your rooftop, its shadow racing up and down the ditches, a flock of birds, carrying the sky by the corners, a giant sheet of blue, the road, always... Read more »
Even now, I hear one and I long to leave without a suitcase or a plan; I want to step onto the platform and reach for the porter’s hand and buy a ticket to some other life; I want to sit in the big seats and watch fields turn into rivers or cities. I want... Read more »
The wisteria means to creep over the world. Every day its long tendrils wave in the breeze, seize the bench under its arbor, weave round the garden fence obstructing the path. Its arbor’s long outgrown. Such avidity. Such greed for dominance. It has already killed the Siberian irises it shadowed, stealing all their sun. Should... Read more »
How have I never noticed a gull partake with such nonchalance of its sunrise breakfast, clamping its prey in its mouth to carry it from the ocean’s edge before beak stabs again and again into body, plucking meat from a crab that does not go gentle into being eaten, jerking, waving its claws in what... Read more »