The Writer's Almanac
Each day, Garrison Keillor reads a poem and relates stories of significant events touching literary history.
Now I understand that there are two melodies playing, one below the other, one easier to hear, the other lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard yet always present. When all other things seem lively and real, this one fades. Yet the notes of it touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound... Read more »
It was 1945, and it was May. White crocus bloomed in St. Louis. The Germans gave in but the war shoved on, and my father came home from work that evening tired and washed his hands not picturing the black-goggled men with code names fashioning an atomic bomb. Maybe he loved his wife that evening.... Read more »
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night... Read more »
It is raining on the house of Anne Frank and on the tourists herded together under the shadow of their umbrellas, on the perfectly silent tourists who would rather be somewhere else but who wait here on stairs so steep they must rise to some occasion high in the empty loft, in the quaint toilet,... Read more »
As they sit there, happily drinking, their strokes, cancers and so forth are not in their minds. Indeed, what earthly good would thinking about the future (which is Death) do? Each summer finds beer in their hands in big pint glasses. And so their leisure passes. Perhaps the older ones allow some inkling into their... Read more »
During World War II, Grandma Shorba handed plates of bread and meat to strangers who asked for work in exchange for food. After chopping wood and mending fences, the lean, stoop-shouldered men went on their way. “May God watch over them,” Grandma said. I was glad I didn’t have to follow them down the long... Read more »