The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The young are walking on the riverbank, arms around each other’s waists and shoulders, pretending to be looking at the waterlilies and what might be a nest of some kind, over there, which two who are clamped together mouth to mouth have forgotten about. The others, making courteous detours around them, talk, stop talking, kiss.... Read more »
Lying here in the tall grass Where it’s so soft Is this what it is to go home? Into the earth Of worms and black smells With a larch tree gathering sunlight In the spring afternoon And the gates of Paradise open just enough To let out A flock of geese.
All my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o’er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment ‘s all my lot; And that, as fast as it is... Read more »
There are days we would rather know than these, as there is always, later, a wife we would rather have married than whom we did, in that severe nowness time pushed, imperfectly, to then. Whether, standing in the museum before Rembrandt’s “Juno,” we stand before beauty, or only before a consensus about beauty, is a... Read more »
I’m not making this up. In Cafe Latte’s wine bar one of the lovely coeds at the next table touched John on the arm as if I wasn’t there and said, Excuse me, sir, but what is that naughty little dessert? And I knew from the way he glanced at the frothy neckline of her... Read more »
This is the house that Jack built! This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cat that killed the rat That ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.... Read more »