The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
He waits by the quiet street, His cane, his fingers, And his listening face Trembling, not out of fear But alert with wonder At what lies just beyond The end of what he is And all he remembers As now he steps forward Into his near future As deliberately as a spider Scuttling from stone... Read more »
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee... Read more »
He strolls down the middle of the sidewalk leaving little room for me. I lag behind to get around an open gate, to avoid a fence post, a mailbox sticking out. You don’t walk as fast as you used to, he says, striding ahead on his personal red carpet, feet turned slightly out, a spring... Read more »
May 19, 1999 Today you would be ninety-seven if you had lived, and we would all be miserable, you and your children, driving from clinic to clinic, an ancient, fearful hypochondriac and his fretful son and daughter, asking directions, trying to read the complicated, fading map of cures. But with your dignity intact you have... Read more »
It’s funny how if you just let go of things they will come to you. That is to say sometimes. So what good is such a generalization? Ah, it makes you feel good to say such things from time to time, as if you actually and really and truly knew something!
She gets off the bus and they kiss. It’s a hard embrace. Then he walks on the balls of his feet like a basketball star, and contorts himself into the driver’s seat of a compact car. She stands outside, averts her face, wipes her lips with the back of her hand as if to erase... Read more »