The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
I prefer to sit all day like a sack in a chair and to lie all night like a stone in my bed. When food comes I open my mouth. When sleep comes I close my eyes. My body sings only one song; the wind turns gray in my arms. Flowers bloom. Flowers die. More... Read more »
Once, in the yellow glow of the hay barn, my father and I met a stray, and that dog stayed and lived with us a while. I named him “Pal” because he was friendly and reminded me of a storybook dog. Even now I can see him sitting at my feet, his head tipped slightly... Read more »
When I was five, my father, who loved me, ran me over with a medium-sized farm tractor. I was lucky though; I tripped and slipped into a small depression, which caused the wheels to tread lightly on my leg, which had already been broken (when I was three) by a big dog, who liked to... Read more »
Cut grass lies frail: Brief is the breath Mown stalks exhale. Long, long the death It dies in the white hours Of young-leafed June With chestnut flowers, With hedges snowlike strewn, White lilac bowed, Lost lanes of Queen Anne’s lace, And that high-builded cloud Moving at summer’s pace.
So strange to hear that song again tonight Traveling on business in a rented car Miles from anywhere I’ve been before. And now a tune I haven’t heard for years Probably not since it last left the charts Back in L.A. in 1969. I can’t believe I know the words by heart And can’t think... Read more »
Trucks roll down I-5, trailers full of tomatoes. Almost always they’ll spill a few as they round a corner, hard, small fruit bouncing over asphalt, a bright scattering of red on the road’s shoulder of star thistle and tarweed. Maybe you left the house angry over an argument with your wife, words in the air... Read more »