The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
The Writer’s Almanac for April 18, 201504/18/15
Carrie and I were hanging our wash on the roof of the hostel in Riomaggiore—all we had carried in our packs while remaining half-dressed—when the Italian couple came up to shower. They shared a stall, not caring about us and our sodden rainbow of...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 17, 2015
I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their same- ness. The way a tiny pile of snow perches in the crook of a branch in the tall pine, away by itself, high enough not to be noticed by people, out of reach of stray dogs. It leans against...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 16, 2015
Oh, they can be forgiven such innocent indulgence, the couple whose car we saw in the darkened parking garage today— the white spray paint filling the rear window, “Just Married,” and the date, now more than two weeks old. Let them enjoy this extended...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 15, 2015
I was feeling pretty religious standing on the bridge in my winter coat looking down at the gray water: the sharp little waves dusted with snow, fish in their tin armor. That’s what I like about disappointment: the way it slows you down, when the...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 14, 2015
Doing without is an interesting custom, involving such in- visible items as the food that’s not on the table, the clothes that are not on the back the radio whose only music is silence. Doing without is a great protector of reputations since all...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 13, 2015
Fair is my love that feeds among the lilies, The lilies growing in the pleasant garden, Where Cupid’s mount, that well-beloved hill is, And where that little god himself is warden. See where my love sits in the beds of spices, Beset all round with...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 12, 2015
Our upstate April is cold and gray. Nevertheless yesterday I found up in our old woods on the littered ground dogtooth violets standing around and blooming wisely. And by the edge of the Bo’s road at the far side of the meadow where the limestone...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 11, 2015
I wanted to go on an immense journey, to travel night and day into the unknown until, forgetting my old self, I came into possession of a new self, one that I might have missed on my previous travels. But the first step was beyond me. I lay in bed,...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 10, 2015
Some nights I think of it, moving to Malibu, just as I stretch, like a cat stretches, to my full length, as though I am easing into cool waters. I imagine the blue of the sea; the bright green leaves of the geranium on the patio, the bright pink...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 9, 2015
On the stage set of the Piazza della Rotunda A couple of thousand citizens (some still in togas) strolling about or sitting at café tables And an old old flowerseller passing among the tables bending over young couples in jeans as they whisper...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 8, 2015
Oh, po’ sinner, Now is yo’ time Oh, po’ sinner What yo’ gwine to do when de lamp burn down? Oh, de lamp burn down an’ yo’ cannot see; What yo’ gwine t’ do when de lamp burn down? Oh, de lamp burm down an’ yo’ cannot see; What yo’ gwine t’ do when...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 7, 2015
Motion and Means, on land and sea at war With old poetic feeling, not for this, Shall ye, by Poets even, be judged amiss! Nor shall your presence, howsoe’ er it mar The loveliness of Nature, prove a bar To the Mind’s gaining that prophetic sense Of...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 6, 2015
there are song birds singing and roosters crowing, dogs barking and a pneumatic drill being used on the sidewalk below, and I wake remembering these things from Omaha as if the sound of the sea, of the gulls were from Omaha, too, wake wondering that I...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 5, 2015
The air was soft, the ground still cold. In the dull pasture where I strolled Was something I could not believe. Dead grass appeared to slide and heave, Though still too frozen-flat to stir, And rocks to twitch and all to blur. What was this rippling...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 4, 2015
The moon was like a full cup tonight, too heavy, and sank in the mist soon after dark, leaving for light faint stars and the silver leaves of milkweed beside the road, gleaming before my car. Yet I like driving at night in summer and in Vermont: the...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 3, 2015
Like primitives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-handed we scraped sand and gravel back into the hole. They fell with a hiss and thud on his side, on his long red fur, the white feathers between his toes, and his long, not to say aquiline, nose....
The Writer’s Almanac for April 2, 2015
I had left you at the gate to buy a newspaper and on my way back stopped at a bank of monitors to check the status of our flight to London. That was when you noticed a middle-aged man in a brown jacket and the green short-brimmed cap I’d bought for...
The Writer’s Almanac for April 1, 2015
From Endymion Book I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases, it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 31, 2015
The cat licks its paw and lies down in the bookshelf nook She can lie in a sphinx position without moving for so many hours and then turn her head to me and rise and stretch and turn her back to me and lick her paw again as if no real time had passed...
The Writer’s Almanac for March 30, 2015
Once some people were visiting Chekhov. While they made remarks about his genius the Master fidgeted. Finally he said, “Do you like chocolates?” They were astonished, and silent. He repeated the question, whereupon one lady plucked up her courage and...
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