The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
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 »
The children are sleeping and the cows and chickens are sleeping, and the grass itself is sleeping. The machines are off and the neighbor’s lights, a half mile away, are out, and the moon is hanging like a powdered face in a darkened room, and the snow is shining under stars the way we are... Read more »
I would love to have lived out my years in a cottage a few blocks from the sea, and to have spent my mornings painting out in the cold, wet rocks, to be known as “a local artist,” a pleasant old man who “paints passably well, in a traditional manner,” though a person of limited... Read more »
The room darkened, darkened until our nakedness became a form of gray; then the rain came bursting, and we were sheltered, blessed, upheld in a world of elements that held us justified. In all the love I had felt for you before, in all that love, there was no love like that I felt when... Read more »
When my nineteen-year-old son turns on the kitchen tap and leans down over the sink and tilts his head sideways to drink directly from the stream of cool water, I think of my older brother, now almost ten years gone, who used to do the same thing at that age; and when he lifts his... Read more »