The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Late afternoons, we’d tuck up our hems under Minisa Bridge, scrape our white knees on scrub brush and drowned trees to slide down the dirt bank past milk-weed gone to seed, cattails and trash to sit on stones at the edge of the river and giggle and smoke, waiting to wolf-whistle North High’s rowing team.... Read more »
I have to believe a Beethoven string quartet is not unlike the elliptical music of gossip: one violin excited to pass its small story along to the next violin and the next until, finally, come full circle, the whole conversation is changed. And I have to believe such music is at work at the deep... Read more »
In June’s high light she stood at the sink With a glass of wine, And listened for the bobolink, And crushed garlic in late sunshine. I watched her cooking, from my chair. She pressed her lips Together, reached for kitchenware, And tasted sauce from her fingertips. “It’s ready now. Come on,” she said. “You light... Read more »
Day fourteen in the radiation waiting room and the elderly man sitting next to me says he gives thanks every day because he can still roll over and climb out of bed. We wear the same cotton gowns—repeating pattern of gold stars on a field of blue—that gape in back, leaving our goose bump flesh... Read more »
I don’t yell. I don’t hold inside the day’s supply of frustrations. My hands stay open all day. I don’t wake tired and sore, dazed from senseless, panicking dreams. On the days I am not my father I hold my son when he cries, let him touch my face without flinching, lie down with him... Read more »
Of the light in my room: Its mood swings, Dark-morning glooms, Summer ecstasies. Spider on the wall, Lamp burning late, Shoes left by the bed, I’m your humble scribe. Dust balls, simple souls Conferring in the corner. The pearl earring she lost, Still to be found. Silence of falling snow, Night vanishing without trace, Only... Read more »