The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Oh, what a weak sticker, you groan, as the batter pops out to the infield. We’re propped up in two beds—mine’s electric, with crib sides, rented to ease eleven broken ribs — watching the Red Sox, who are in the cellar and dozing between Demerol and errors. You yawn, the resident optimist no family should... Read more »
At the foot of the cliff, the sea is taking back what it left there long ago, and the landowners have made a barricade of three old cars between low and high tide and loaded them with so many river stones, they’ve been weighed down below their springs, below their shock absorbers. The waves are... Read more »
when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric” I know what he meant I know what he wanted: to be completely alive every moment in spite of the inevitable. we can’t cheat death but we can make it work so hard that when it does take us it will have known a victory just as... Read more »
They know so much more now about the heart we are told but the world still seems to come one at a time one day one year one season and here it is spring once more with its birds nesting in the holes in the walls its morning finding the first time its light pretending... Read more »
The children have gone to bed. We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet, the forgiveness of that sleep. Then the one small cry: one strike of the... Read more »
Every two years he traded them in (“As soon as the ashtrays get full,” he said with good humor); always a sedate four-door sedan, always a Buick, always dark as the inside of a tomb. Then one spring Grandfather took off to trade, returned, parked proudly in the driveway. “Shave-and-a-haircut, two bits!” blared the horn.... Read more »