The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Only a little light remains. The new football feels heavy and our throws are awkward like the conversation of brothers who see each other occasionally. After a few exchanges, confidence grows, the passing and catching feels natural and good. Gradually, we move farther apart, out in the field, the space between us filling with darkness.... Read more »
After so long an absence At last we meet again: Does the meeting give us pleasure, Or does it give us pain? The tree of life has been shaken, And but few of us linger now, Like the Prophet’s two or three berries In the top of the uttermost bough. We cordially greet each other... Read more »
Seven-thirty. Driving northwest out of town, the snowscape dusky, sky tinted smoky peach. In the rear view mirror, a bright orange glow suffuses the stubbly treeline. Suddenly a column of brightness shoots from the horizon, a pillar of fire! One eye on the road, I watch behind me the head of a golden child begin... Read more »
Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where we all agree To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for horses; All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place As children, but we never heard the good stories. Those stories only get told in the big tents, late At night,... Read more »
Low clouds hang on the mountain. The forest is filled with fog. A short distance away the Giant trees recede and grow Dim. Two hundred paces and They are invisible. All Day the fog curdles and drifts. The cries of the birds are loud. They sound frightened and cold. Hour By hour it grows colder.... Read more »
Whatever harm I may have done In all my life in all your wide creation If I cannot repair it I beg you to repair it, And then there are all the wounded The poor the deaf the lonely and the old Whom I have roughly dismissed As if I were not one of them.... Read more »