The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
The older I get, the more I like hugging. When I was little the people hugging me were much larger. In their grasp I was a rag doll. In adolescence, my body was too tense to relax for a hug. Later, after the loss of virginity—which was anything but a loss—the extreme proximity of the... Read more »
It’s Bloomsday in Dublin and wherever Ulysses works as an advertising man with an unfaithful wife as I sit here listening to a lecture on Flannery O’Connor, Frank O’Connor, and the O’Hara boys, John and Frank, I think of going to Dublin with you buying a toy wedding ring at Woolworth’s and the phrase “mock... Read more »
Each afternoon he took his pipe and led his goats beyond the pasture to a neighbor’s field behind his farm— not exactly his but not exactly not. As the goats dipped the tall grasses, he sat in the chair he never failed to bring. Sometimes he read, most often not. The vetch climbed the goldenrod,... Read more »
Which once belonged to your great- grandparents, but belongs to us now, and still works, even if the cushions are pretty well flattened and the stuffing is coming out from one armrest, and the color, which was probably once cream with red stitching, has become mostly a muddy rust — and which is always called... Read more »
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, The full round moon and the star-laden sky, And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves, Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry. And then you came with those red mournful lips, And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, And all the trouble... Read more »
O my love The pretty towns All the blue tents of our nights together And the lilies and the birds glad in our joy The road through the forest Where the surly wolf lived And the snow at the top of the mountain And the little Rain falling on the roofs of the village O... Read more »