The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Like a child, the earth’s going to sleep, or so the story goes. But I’m not tired, it says. And the mother says, You may not be tired but I’m tired— You can see it in her face, everyone can. So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come. Because the mother’s sick to... Read more »
Sugar maples, little fires in the trees, every blazing gradation of orange to red, and this makes me think of you, the way you press the long length of your body against me, the heat seeping through flannel, my own private furnace. If only hands and feet had a color, it would be blue. From... Read more »
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline,... Read more »
I have left my wife at the airport, flying out to help our daughter whose baby will not eat. And I am driving on to Kent to hear some poets read tonight. I don’t know what to do with myself when she leaves me like this. An old friend has decided to end our friendship.... Read more »
Most of what happens happens beyond words. The lexicon of lip and fingertip defies translation into common speech. I recognize the musk of your dark hair. It always thrills me, though I can’t describe it. My finger on your thigh does not touch skin— it touches your skin warming to my touch. You are a... Read more »
We start with the classics. Homer. Shakespeare. Chaucer. But he becomes bored and wants to read romances. Stories of people adrift on the tides of their passion. He is afraid he is missing more than sight. That there are continents of emotions he has never explored. As I read, his lips move as if he... Read more »