The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Theirs is a perfection of pure form. Nobody but has his proper place and knows it. Everything they do is functional. Each foray in a zigzag line Each prodigious lifting Of thirty-two times their own weight Each excavation into the earth’s core Each erection Of a crumbly parapetted tower — None of these feats is... Read more »
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
Trying to tie my shoes, clumsy, not able to work out the logic of it, fumbling, as my father stands there, his anger growing over a son who can’t even do this simplest thing for the first time, can’t even manage the knot to keep his shoes on—You think someone’s going to tie your shoes... Read more »
Kissing again, after a long drought of not kissing-too many kids, bills, windows needing repair. Sex, yes, though squeezed in between the minor depths of anger, despair— standing up amid the laundry or fumbling onto the strip of rug between the coffee table and the couch. Quick, furtive, like birds. A dance on the wing,... Read more »
A friend of mine says that every war Is some violence in childhood coming closer. Those whoppings in the shed weren’t a joke. On the whole, it didn’t turn out well. This has been going on for thousands Of years! It doesn’t change. Something Happened to me, and I can’t tell Anyone, so it will... Read more »
I wish I could say I was the kind of child who watched the moon from her window, would turn toward it and wonder. I never wondered. I read. Dark signs that crawled toward the edge of the page. It took me years to grow a heart from paper and glue. All I had was... Read more »