The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk to worship the moon rising like a yellow filling-station sign on the black horizon, you feel the faint grit of ants beneath your shoes, but keep on walking because in this world you have to decide what you’re willing to kill. Saving your marriage might mean dinner for... Read more »
As far as I can tell, old chum, neuter is neither here nor there, but in-between, a state that has a certain charm, like pewter, prized for durability, if not for sheen. Tomorrow night you’ll stroll in wary fashion after the sleep, the knife, the careful scars that promise to put an end to wayward... Read more »
It was a quiet way— He asked if I was his— 1 made no answer of the Tongue But answer of the Eyes— And then He bore me on Before this mortal noise With swiftness, as of Chariots And distance, as of Wheels. This World did drop away As Acres from the feet Of one... Read more »
Especially on long drives through the country, you like to tell that story about your old girlfriend whose parrot was killed one afternoon by a raccoon who stole in through the pet door. It was horrible, you say. Feathers everywhere. Are you laughing? Stop laughing. She really loved that bird.
The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean,... Read more »
And then I stood for the last time in that room. The key was in my hand. I held my ground, and listened to the quiet that was like a sound, and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon fell slantwise on the floorboards, making bloom the grain in the blond wood. (All that... Read more »