The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
The Writer’s Almanac for March 27, 201503/27/15
Helmet and rifle, pack and overcoat Marched through a forest. Somewhere up ahead Guns thudded. Like the circle of a throat The night on every side was turning red. They halted and they dug. They sank like moles Into the clammy earth between the trees....
The Writer’s Almanac for March 25, 2015
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 24, 2015
Driving a cardboard automobile without a license at the turn of the century my father ran into my mother on a fun-ride at Coney Island having spied each other eating in a French boardinghouse nearby And having decided right there and then that she was...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 23, 2015
across from the gas station a bus stopped every ten minutes under the blue streetlight and discharged a single passenger. Never more than one. A one-armed man with a cane. A girl in red leather. A security guard carrying his lunch box. They stepped...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 22, 2015
It was my father taught my mother how to dance. I never knew that. I thought it was the other way. Ballroom was their style, a graceful twirling, curved arms and fancy footwork, a green-eyed radio. There is always more than you know. There are always...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 21, 2015
After we’d walked for at least an hour, heading toward the Vatican on a broiling August day, I began thinking about how long the tour we’d signed up for was going to be, and how many sacred things would be on view, and how much complicated information...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 20, 2015
In the subway late at night. Waiting for the downtown train at Forty-second Street. Walking back and forth on the platform. Too tired to give money. Staring at the magazine covers in the kiosk. Someone passes me from behind, wearing an orange vest and...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 19, 2015
The young are walking on the riverbank, arms around each other’s waists and shoulders, pretending to be looking at the waterlilies and what might be a nest of some kind, over there, which two who are clamped together mouth to mouth have forgotten...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 18, 2015
Lying here in the tall grass Where it’s so soft Is this what it is to go home? Into the earth Of worms and black smells With a larch tree gathering sunlight In the spring afternoon And the gates of Paradise open just enough To let out A flock of geese.
The Writer’s Almanac for March 17, 2015
All my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o’er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment ‘s all my lot; And that, as...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 16, 2015
There are days we would rather know than these, as there is always, later, a wife we would rather have married than whom we did, in that severe nowness time pushed, imperfectly, to then. Whether, standing in the museum before Rembrandt’s “Juno,” we...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 15, 2015
I’m not making this up. In Cafe Latte’s wine bar one of the lovely coeds at the next table touched John on the arm as if I wasn’t there and said, Excuse me, sir, but what is that naughty little dessert? And I knew from the way he glanced at the frothy...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 14, 2015
This is the house that Jack built! This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. This is the rat that ate the malt That lay in the house that Jack built. This is the cat that killed the rat That ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 13, 2015
The children are sleeping and the cows and chickens are sleeping, and the grass itself is sleeping. The machines are off and the neighbor’s lights, a half mile away, are out, and the moon is hanging like a powdered face in a darkened room, and the...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 12, 2015
I would love to have lived out my years in a cottage a few blocks from the sea, and to have spent my mornings painting out in the cold, wet rocks, to be known as “a local artist,” a pleasant old man who “paints passably well, in a traditional manner,”...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 11, 2015
The room darkened, darkened until our nakedness became a form of gray; then the rain came bursting, and we were sheltered, blessed, upheld in a world of elements that held us justified. In all the love I had felt for you before, in all that love,...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 10, 2015
When my nineteen-year-old son turns on the kitchen tap and leans down over the sink and tilts his head sideways to drink directly from the stream of cool water, I think of my older brother, now almost ten years gone, who used to do the same thing at...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 9, 2015
There’s just no accounting for happiness, or the way it turns up like a prodigal who comes back to the dust at your feet having squandered a fortune far away. And how can you not forgive? You make a feast in honor of what was lost, and take from its...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 8, 2015
The text of today’s poem is not available online.
The Writer’s Almanac for March 7, 2015
A man walks alone in the park and beside him a woman walks, also alone. How does one know? It is as though a line exists between them, like a line on a playing field. And yet, in a photograph they might appear a married cou- ple, weary of each other...
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