The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Not those women who lure sailors onto a reef with their singing and their tresses, but the screams of an ambulance bearing the sick, the injured, and the dying across the rational grid of the city. We get so used to the sound it’s just another sharp in the city’s tune. Yet it’s one thing... Read more »
When you were small, we watched you sleeping, waves of breath filling your chest. Sometimes we hid behind the wall of baby, soft cradle of baby needs. I loved carrying you between my own body and the world. Now you are sharpening pencils, entering the forest of lunch boxes, little desks. People I never saw... Read more »
How far friends are! They forget you, most days. They have to, I know; but still, it’s lonely just being far and a friend. I put my hand out—this chair, this table— So near: touch, that’s how to live. Call up a friend? All right, but the phone itself is what loves you, warm on... Read more »
Almost too late to walk in the woods, but I did, anyway. And stepping aside for a moment from the shadowy path to enter darker shadow, a favorite circle of fir trees, received a gift from the dusk: a small owl, not affrighted, merely moving deliberately to a branch a few feet further from me,... Read more »
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and... Read more »
In the old joke, the marriage counselor tells the couple who never talks anymore to go to a jazz club because at a jazz club everyone talks during the bass solo. But of course, no one starts talking just because of a bass solo or any other solo for that matter. The quieter bass solo... Read more »