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Garrison Keillor

Author: American Public Media

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The official site of Garrison Keillor
477 Episodes
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I stood on the porch of our raised cottage           and saw my two ruddy children crouched below in the grass           over a hard-backed beetle and I was taken with this phobia           that goes up and up with me and suddenly I saw myself fallen,           my body twisted on the pavement, a thigh bare and scraped... Read more »
Seems like a long time Since the waiter took my order. Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside. Seems like it has grown darker Since I last heard the kitchen door Behind my back Since I last noticed Anyone pass on the street. A glass of ice water Keeps me company At this table I... Read more »
Wind and the sound of wind— across the bay a chainsaw revs and stalls. I’ve come here to write, but instead I’ve been thinking about my father, who, in his last year, after his surgery, told my mother he wasn’t sorry—that he’d cried when the other woman left him, that his time with her had... Read more »
Someone dragged a hide-a-bed onto the sand last night. This morning there it sits, empty as an open clam, clearly slept in, face to face with the Pacific. Less graceful than a Massey-Ferguson and less expected. Even the dogs, after marking it theirs, shake their heads. Still, I recognize the impulse, the urge to reach... Read more »
For that free Grace bringing us past great risks & thro’ great griefs surviving to this feast sober & still, with the children unborn and born, among brave friends, Lord, we stand again in debt and find ourselves in the glad position: Gratitude. We praise our ancestors who delivered us here within warm walls all... Read more »
If you have seen the snow under the lamppost piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table or somewhere slowly falling into the brook to be swallowed by water, then you have seen beauty and know it for its transience. And if you have gone out in the snow for only the... Read more »
But I, too, want to be a poet to erase from my days confusion & poverty fiction & a sharp tongue To sing again with the tones of adolescence demanding vengeance against my enemies, with words clear & austere To end this tumultuous quest for reasonable solutions to situations mysterious & sore To have the... Read more »
I never thought we’d end up Living this far north, love. Cold blue heaven over our heads, Quarter moon like chalk on a slate. This week it’s the art of subtraction And further erasure that we study. O the many blanks to ponder Before the night overtakes us once more On this lonely stretch of... Read more »
She rises up above the strapless, her dewy flesh 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 her steady gaze raised when she walks,... Read more »
They have photographed the brain and here is the picture, it is full of branches as I always suspected, each time you arrive the electricity of seeing you is a huge tree lumbering through my skull, the roots waving. It is an earth, its fibres wrap things buried, your forgotten words are graved in my... Read more »
How kind people are! How few in the crowd truly hope the tightrope will break. Rare’s the man who’ll shoot the Pope or throw his shoe at a liar, though joining in—that’s natural. An audience of St. Paul’s sparrows is easily bored, easily frightened. One blasphemy and off they fly. Even a polite dog will... Read more »
My father chops with his axe and 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 sleep in a bunk bed. The waves stroke the lake. In the mornings... Read more »
A friend sends me a picture of herself from the 70s—bell bottoms, platform shoes a patterned button down shirt, hair puffed up from a perm. I can see the outline of the person she is now and she reminds me of myself in the 70s— married for eight years to a man I knew I... Read more »
They float, these white trees— a few petals, fallen to the street, not stars fading, not snow. The trees have blossomed in a freezing east wind. None, I think, has any regrets or choice. If the night frost comes too thick, too fast, they’ll give what they have to, as if it were nothing— these... Read more »
Even in this sharp weather there are lovers everywhere holding onto each other, hands in one another’s pockets for warmth, for the sense of I’m yours, the tender claim it keeps making—one couple stopping in the chill to stand there, faces pressed together, arms around jacketed shoulders so I can see bare hands grapple with... Read more »
From the porch at dusk I watched a kingfisher wild in flight he could only have made for joy. He came down the river, splashing against the water’s dimming face like a skipped rock, passing on down out of sight. And still I could hear the splashes farther and farther away as it grew darker.... Read more »
I have been spared another day to come into this night as though there is a mercy in things mindful of me. Love, cast all thought aside. I cast aside all thought. Our bodies enter their brief precedence, surrounded by their sleep. Through you I rise, and you through me, into the joy we make,... Read more »
That I did always love I bring thee Proof That till I loved I never lived – Enough – That I shall love alway – I argue thee That love is life – And life hath Immortality – This – dost thou doubt – Sweet – Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary –
For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959 and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959 Gone, 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 being brave. We drive to the Cape. I cultivate myself where the sun gutters from the sky, where the sea swings in like an iron gate and we touch. In another country people die. My darling, the wind falls in like stones from the whitehearted water and when we touch we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in their stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
my daughter says. Unless the car could float. Unless by car you mean boat. Unless the ocean turned to ice and promised not to crack. Unless Greenland floated over here, having lifted its anchor. Unless we could row our country there. Our whole continent would have to come along, wouldn’t it? Unless we cut ourselves free. What kind of saw could we use for that? What kind of oars could deliver one country to another? She asks, Why is Greenland called Greenland if it’s not green? Why is Iceland called Iceland if it’s greener than Greenland? Unless it’s a trick, a lie: the name Greenland is an ad for Greenland. Who would go promised nothing but ice? Who would cut her home to pieces and row away for that?
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Comments (5)

The Best

Miss this... A LOT.

Dec 25th
Reply (1)

iTunes User

Keillor is a poet of the human voice and condition. These five minute podcasts are truly amazing and a must for those of us not able to hear them live on NPR. I saw Mr. Keillor do a live performance at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN a couple years ago and was inspired by his professionalism, creativity, humor and intelligence. It is about time this podcats made it on here - many thanks!

Aug 30th
Reply

iTunes User

Garrison Keillor hypnotic voice brings you stories, facts and poetry that will permeate your thoughts all through the day. I feel a little more whole for listening to these five-minute almanac entries. Even if you have not been a fan of the Prairie Home Companion give this more personal outlet of Mr. Keillor a chance. You won’t regret it.

Aug 30th
Reply

iTunes User

A great start to the day. Every morning this is loaded on my iPod and I listen on the way to work. Great selections of poetry, well read. Small iTunes complaint: both weekend episodes appear together, instead of daily. Recommendation: include the text to the poems.

Aug 30th
Reply
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