The Writer's Almanac with Garrison KeillorThe Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
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The Writer's Almanac with Garrison KeillorThe Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
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The Writer's Almanac with Garrison KeillorThe Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
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A bear is chasing me through a meadowand I’m running as fast as I can buthe’s gaining on me—it seemshe’s always gaining on me.I’m running and running but alsothinking I should justturn around and say,“Stop it! Stop chasing me. We bothkn
at my kitchen sink, the bathroom upstairsclogged with family from out of townspending the night after the wakeand the after-wake—cold beverageshave been consumed and comfort food,leftovers bulging both the fridgeand the minifridge. In our
I stood on the porch of our raised cottageand saw my two ruddy childrencrouched below in the grassover a hard-backed beetleand I was taken with this phobiathat goes up and up with meand suddenly I saw myself
Seems like a long timeSince the waiter took my order.Grimy little luncheonette,The snow falling outside.Seems like it has grown darkerSince I last heard the kitchen doorBehind my backSince I last noticedAnyone pass on the street.A glas
Wind and the sound of wind—across the bay a chainsaw revsand stalls. I’ve come here to write,but instead I’ve been thinkingabout my father, who, in his last year,after his surgery, told my motherhe wasn’t sorry—that he’d criedwhen the ot
Someone dragged a hide-a-bedonto the sand last night.This morning there it sits, emptyas an open clam, clearlyslept in, face to facewith the Pacific. Less gracefulthan a Massey-Fergusonand less expected. Even the dogs,after marking it t
For that free Grace bringing us past great risks& thro’ great griefs surviving to this feastsober & still, with the children unborn and born,among brave friends, Lord, we stand again in debtand find ourselves in the glad position: Gratitude
If you have seen the snowunder the lamppostpiled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic tableor somewhere slowly fallinginto the brookto be swallowed by water,then you have seen beautyand know it for its transience.And if you have gon
But I, too, want to be a poetto erase from my daysconfusion & povertyfiction & a sharp tongueTo sing againwith the tones of adolescencedemanding vengeanceagainst my enemies, with wordsclear & austereTo end this tumultuous questfor rea
I never thought we’d end upLiving this far north, love.Cold blue heaven over our heads,Quarter moon like chalk on a slate.This week it’s the art of subtractionAnd further erasure that we study.O the many blanks to ponderBefore the night
First Formal by Sharon Olds | Sunday, November 19, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
She rises up above the strapless, her dewyflesh like a soul half out of a body.It makes me remember her one week old,soft, elegant, startled, alone.She stands still, as if, if she moved,her body might pour up out of the bodice,she keeps h
They have photographed the brainand here is the picture, it is full ofbranches as I always suspected,each time you arrive the electricityof seeing you is a hugetree lumbering through my skull, the roots waving.It is an earth, its fibres w
They have photographed the brainand here is the picture, it is full ofbranches as I always suspected,each time you arrive the electricityof seeing you is a hugetree lumbering through my skull, the roots waving.It is an earth, its fibres w
How kind people are!How few in the crowd truly hopethe tightrope will break.Rare’s the man who’ll shoot the Popeor throw his shoe at a liar,though joining in—that’s natural.An audience of St. Paul’s sparrowsis easily bored, easily fright
My father chops with his axeand the leaves fall off the trees.It’s nineteen forty-three.He’s splitting wood for the winter.His gun leans behind the door,beside his goose-greased workboots.Smoke comes out of the metal chimney.At night I s
A friend sends me a picture of herselffrom the 70s—bell bottoms, platform shoesa patterned button down shirt,hair puffed up from a perm.I can see the outline of the person she is nowand she reminds me of myself in the 70s—married for eigh
They float, these white trees—a few petals, fallento the street, not stars fading,not snow.The trees have blossomedin a freezing east wind.None, I think, has any regretsor choice.If the night frostcomes too thick,too fast, they’ll giv
Even in this sharp weather there are lovers everywhereholding onto each other, hands in one another’s pocketsfor warmth, for the sense of I’m yours, the tender claimit keeps making—one couple stopping in the chillto stand there, faces press
From the porch at dusk I watcheda kingfisher wild in flighthe could only have made for joy.He came down the river, splashingagainst the water’s dimming facelike a skipped rock, passingon down out of sight. And stillI could hear the splas
I have been spared another dayto come into this nightas though there is a mercy in thingsmindful of me. Love, cast allthought aside. I cast asideall thought. Our bodies entertheir brief precedence,surrounded by their sleep.Through you I
That I did always loveI bring thee ProofThat till I lovedI never lived – Enough –That I shall love alway –I argue theeThat love is life –And life hath Immortality –This – dost thou doubt – Sweet –Then have INothing to showBut Calvary
For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959Gone, I say and walk from church,refusing the stiff procession to the grave,letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.It is June. I am tired of
my daughter says. Unless the car could float.Unless by car you mean boat. Unless the oceanturned to ice and promised not to crack.Unless Greenland floated over here,having lifted its anchor. Unless we could rowour country there. Our whole
Because he can still cause a reaction in mewhen he talks about SN2 displacements,amines and esters looking for receptor sitesat the base of their ketones. Because he lugshome serious tomes like The Journal of the AmericanChemical Society o
I have begun, like my mother before me,to cross out names. She lived to read the obituariesof all her friends. In my generation, the first girlI ever kissed is dead, complications of pneumonia.I saw the email on the way from somethingimpor
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