The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It was a kind of torture—waiting to be kissed. A dark car parked away from the street lamp, away from our house where my tall father would wait, his face visible at a pane high in the front door. Was my mother always asleep? A boy reached for me, I leaned eagerly into him, soon... Read more »
Thirty years and more go by In the blinking of an eye, And you are still the same As when first you took my name. Much the same blush now as then Glimmers through the peach-pale skin. Time (but as with a glove) Lightly touches you, my love. Stand with me a minute still While... Read more »
When my father met my mother at a dinner party in a garden of very old roses on Beacon Hill one hot evening in early June, he said to his friend, F. Morton Smith, that night, “Morton, I have met the girl I’m going to marry!” (We have Uncle Morton’s testimony for that, the certified... Read more »
From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flow’rs in odor and in hue, Could make me any... Read more »
My father lives by the ocean and drinks his morning coffee in the full sun on his deck, talking to anyone who walks by on the beach. And in the afternoons he works part-time at the golf course— sailing the fairways like sea captain in a white golf cart. My father must talk to a... Read more »
All through the day I hear or overhear their clear, light voices calling from desk to desk, young women whose fingers play casually over their documents, setting the incoming checks to one side, the thick computer reports to the other, tapping the correspondence into stacks while they sing to each other, not intending to sing... Read more »