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  1. Candlelight by Tony Hoagland | Sunday, August 06, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/06
    Crossing the porch in the hazy dusk to worship the moon rising like a yellow filling-station sign on the black horizon, you feel the faint grit of ants beneath your shoes, but keep on walking because in this world you have to decide what you’re willing to kill. Saving your marriage might mean dinner for... Read more »
  2. Walking the Dog on the Night before He Is to Be Fixed by John Stone | Saturday, August 05, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/05
    As far as I can tell, old chum, neuter is neither here nor there, but in-between, a state that has a certain charm, like pewter, prized for durability, if not for sheen. Tomorrow night you’ll stroll in wary fashion after the sleep, the knife, the careful scars that promise to put an end to wayward... Read more »
  3. It was a quiet way by Emily Dickinson | Friday, August 04, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/04
    It was a quiet way— He asked if I was his— 1 made no answer of the Tongue But answer of the Eyes— And then He bore me on Before this mortal noise With swiftness, as of Chariots And distance, as of Wheels. This World did drop away As Acres from the feet Of one... Read more »
  4. Exotic Treats by Laura McKee | Thursday, August 03, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/03
    Especially on long drives through the country, you like to tell that story about your old girlfriend whose parrot was killed one afternoon by a raccoon who stole in through the pet door. It was horrible, you say. Feathers everywhere. Are you laughing? Stop laughing. She really loved that bird.
  5. The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm by Wallace Stevens | Wednesday, August 02, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/02
    The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet and the world was calm. The words were spoken as if there was no book, Except that the reader leaned above the page, Wanted to lean,... Read more »
  6. On Closing the Apartment of my Grandparents of Blessed Memory by Robyn Sarah | Tuesday, August 01, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/08/01
    And then I stood for the last time in that room. The key was in my hand. I held my ground, and listened to the quiet that was like a sound, and saw how the long sun of winter afternoon fell slantwise on the floorboards, making bloom the grain in the blond wood. (All that... Read more »
  7. Limericks by Gary Johnson | Monday, July 31, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/07/31
    A young man climbed up Mount Rainier On a day that was perfectly clear And through his telescope He watched a big dope Steal his bicycle and disappear. … There was a young lady of Newark Who rode a train daily to work Then returned to the station For the same transportation At six o’clock... Read more »
  8. After Our Daughter’s Wedding by Ellen Bass | Sunday, July 30, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/07/30
    While the remnants of cake and half-empty champagne glasses lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering in the slanting light, we left the house guests and drove to Antonelli’s pond. On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried. A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light. “Do... Read more »
  9. My Own Heart by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Saturday, July 29, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/07/29
    My own heart let me more have pity on; let Me live to my sad self hereafter kind, Charitable; not live this tormented mind With this tormented mind tormenting yet. I cast for comfort I can no more get By groping round my comfortless, than blind Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can... Read more »
  10. My Ancestral Home by Louis Jenkins | Friday, July 28, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor 2017/07/28
    We came to a beautiful little farm. From photos I’d seen I knew this was the place. The house and barn were painted in the traditional Falu red, trimmed with white. It was nearly mid- summer, the trees and grass, lush green, when we arrived the family was gathered at a table on the lawn... Read more »
The Writer's Almanac with Garrison KeillorThe Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor
A poem each day, plus literary and historical notes from this day in history

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