The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
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 »
the only things I remember about New York City in the summer are the fire escapes and how the people go out on the fire escapes in the evening when the sun is setting on the other side of the buildings and some stretch out and sleep there while others sit quietly where it’s cool.... Read more »
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;... Read more »
In a kitchen where mushrooms were washed, the mushroom scent lingers. As the sea must keep for a long time the scent of the whale. As a person who’s once loved completely, a country once conquered, does not release that stunned knowledge. They must want to be found, those strange-shaped, rising morels, clownish puffballs. Lichens... Read more »
At first I sent you a postcard From every city I went to. Grüsse aus Bath, aus Birmingham, Aus Rotterdam, aus Tel Aviv. Mit Liebe. Cards from you arrived In English, with many commas. Hope, you’re fine and still alive, Says one from Hong Kong. By that time We weren’t writing quite as often. Now... Read more »
The cat on the back of the sofa Watching the birds and squirrels Feed and frolic on the patio Outside the sliding glass window, Realizes he is living his life In a cage Only slightly larger than that Of the parakeet. Courtesy of his loving (themselves) owners, Who have bought his freedom From the pet... Read more »