The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
There are landscapes one can own, bright rooms which look out to the sea, tall houses where beyond the window day after day the same dark river turns slowly through the hills, and there are homesteads perched on mountaintops whose cool white caps outlast the spring. And there are other places which, although we did... Read more »
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wand’ring bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although... Read more »
Your mother complains about my snoring, Father said, but she forgets to mention the times I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound celery makes when you bite into it. At first I thought it was a tree falling on the house. I almost jumped out of bed, but when I... Read more »
Because of the menace your father opened like a black umbrella and held high over your childhood blocking the light, your life now seems to you exceptional in its simplicities. You speak of this, throwing the window open on a plain spring day, dazzling after such a winter.
Too bad you weren’t here six months ago, was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska. You could have seen the astonishing spectacle of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River. There was no point in pointing out the impossibility of my being... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.