The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Who would be a turtle who could help it? A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, she can ill afford the chances she must take in rowing toward the grasses that she eats. Her track is graceless, like dragging a packing-case places, and almost any slope defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical, she’s... Read more »
How joyful to be together, alone as when we first were joined in our little house by the river long ago, except that now we know each other, as we did not then; and now instead of two stories fumbling to meet, we belong to one story that the two, joining, made. And now we... Read more »
An average joe comes in and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries. I wait for him to pay before I start cooking. He pays. He ain’t no average joe. The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three. I slap the burgers down throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier and... Read more »
Gone the three ancient ladies Who creaked on the greenhouse ladders, Reaching up white strings To wind, to wind The sweet-pea tendrils, the smilax, Nasturtiums, the climbing Roses, to straighten Carnations, red Chrysanthemums; the stiff Stems, jointed like corn, They tied and tucked,— These nurses of nobody else. Quicker than birds, they dipped Up and... Read more »
After we picked you up at the Omaha airport, we clamped you into a new car seat and listened to you yowl beneath the streetlights of Nebraska. Our hotel suite was plump with toys, ready, we hoped, to soothe you into America. But for a solid hour you watched the door, shrieking, Umma, the Korean... Read more »
Each day was a time clock that scarcely moved, a slow fist punching us in, punching us out, electric heat smoldering in the purple air, but each night was a towering white fly ball to center field — “a can of corn” — coming down through stars glittering above the diamond. Each day was a... Read more »