The Writer's Almanac

Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.

Recent Episodes

The Writer’s Almanac for February 5, 2015

When it’s late at night and branches are banging against the windows, you might think that love is just a matter of leaping out of the frying pan of yourself into the fire of someone else, but it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s more like trading the two birds who might be hiding... Read more »

The Writer’s Almanac for February 4, 2015

In life’s rough-and-tumble you’re the crumble on my apple crumble and the fairy on my Christmas tree! In life’s death-and-duty you’ve the beauty of the Beast’s own Beauty— I feel humble as a bumble-bee! In life’s darkening duel I’m the lighter, you’re the lighter fuel— And the tide that sways my inland sea! In life’s... Read more »

The Writer’s Almanac for February 3, 2015

One must have a mind of winter To regard the frost and the boughs Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; And have been cold a long time To behold the junipers shagged with ice, The spruces rough in the distant glitter Of the January sun; and not to think Of any misery in the sound... Read more »

The Writer’s Almanac for February 2, 2015

If you stripped a dog of its social eagerness, gave it a loping indifference to human presence and starved it, you’d have a coyote, stalking like a shadow among the garbage cans at the top of Pearl Street, near the Fine Arts Work Center. We’re heading back to our car through a fine mist, the... Read more »

The Writer’s Almanac for February 1, 2015

Late afternoon: only a few old men at the bar drinking and talking quietly. Waitresses for the evening shift begin to ar- rive. One stands a moment at the far end of the dining room and looks out the window facing the lake. Snow is falling. The lake is completely obscured, but still customers will... Read more »

The Writer’s Almanac for January 31, 2015

The doe, at a dead run, was dead the instant the truck hit her: In the headlights I saw her tongue extend and her eyes go shocked and vacant, Launched at a sudden right angle—say from twenty miles per hour south to fifty miles per hour east—she skated many yards on the slightest toe-edge tips... Read more »