The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
It was like listening to the record of a symphony before you knew anything at all about the music, what the instruments might sound like, look like, what portion of the orchestra each represented: there were only volumes and velocities, thickenings and thinnings, the winding cries of change that seemed to touch within you, through... Read more »
It’s 1945. The crops laid by in October if he was lucky, by Thanksgiving if not, my father would throw his hat into the threshing machine with the final shock of rice from the final field. That one moment of the year he was jubilant, cocky even, winning out over creditors and blackbirds and rot.... Read more »
Coming out of the theater surrounded by people in elegant clothes, jewelry, all the arias finished, no one able to hold the music inside for long, soon enough it’s gone, and it’s night in the city, it’s all neon and noise, the woman you’re with stops to adjust her shoe, leans her body against yours... Read more »
Bless this boy, born with the strong face of my older brother, the one I loved most, who jumped with me from the roof of the playhouse, my hand in his hand. On Friday nights we watched Twilight Zone and he let me hold the bowl of popcorn, a blanket draped over our shoulders, saying,... Read more »
We burned our leaves on the bluest October day, the sun still warm on our backs, frost just a ghost in the shrubbery. We raked the leaves into shifting piles on the lawn, scooped them into deep round baskets and spilled them in the street against the curb. The vein of fire, unseen at first... Read more »
The day I learned my wife was dying I thought of all the words we’d never speak. Not just I love you or let’s go for a walk, but complaints and words from fights. How much I’d give to have her to tell me take out the garbage, pick up your books! I’d be eager... Read more »