garrison keillor: rita dove was the youngest poet laureate of the united states and the first african american. she's published nine books of poetry, a novel, a play, essays and a book of short stories. among her many honors are the pulitzer prize and the national humanities medal. her poems draw on historical and political events, as well as sources close to her own experience, like ballroom dancing. "american smooth." we were dancing-- it must have been a foxtrot or a waz, something romantic but requiring restraint, rise and fall, precise execution as we moved into the next step without stopping, two chests heaving above a seven-league stride-- such perfect agony one learns to smile through, ecstatic mimicry being the sine qua non of american smooth. and because i was distracted by the effort of keeping my frame (the leftward lean, head turned just enough to gaze out past your ear and always smiling, smiling), i didn't notice how still you'd become until we had done it (for two measures? four?)-- achieved flight, that swift and serene magnificence, before the earth remembered who we

. >> garrison keillor: maxine kumin lives on a farm in new hampshire where she breeds arabian and quarterorses, writing poetry, four novels, more than 20 children's books. she says, "i don't want to write poems that aren't necessary. i want to write poems that matter." >> this is a little one called after love. afterward, the compromise. bodies resume their boundaries. these legs, for instance, mine. your arms take you back in. spoons of our fingers, lips admit their ownership. the bedding yawns, a door blows aimlessly ajar and overhead, a plane singsongs coming down. nothing is changed, except there was a moment when the wolf, the mongering wolf who stands outside the self lay lightly down, and slept. ( applause ) thank you. >>> this week on moyers and company. >> you can't look at the roberts court. workers rights, environmental progress. >> i think it's hard for anybody looking at this court objectively to come away not thinking that it's a court of an agenda. >> funding is provided by ann gumowitz, carnegie corporation, the ford foundation, working with visionaries on the front lines

captioned by the national captioning institute --www.ncicap.org-- >> garrison keillor: the nicaraguan author daisy zamora has written five books of poetry in spanish. during the 1970s, she joined with the revolutionaries who opposed the nicaraguan dictator anastasio somoza. after somoza was ousted, she became vice minister for culture for the new government. her poems, essays, and translations have been published in magazines and literary journals all over the world. >> i do not doubt you would have liked one of those pretty mothers in the ads-- complete with adoring husband and happy children. she's always smiling, and if she cries at all it is absent of lights and camera, makeup washed from her face. but since you were born of my womb, i should tell you ever since i was small like you i wanted to be myself-- and for a woman that's hard. (even my guardian angel refused to watch over me when she heard.) ( laughter ) i cannot tell you that i know the road. often, i lose my way and my life has been a painful crossing-- navigating reefs, in and out of storms, refusing to listen to the gh

captioned by the national captioning institute --www.ncicap.org-- >> garrison keillor: when marilyn chin came to the united states from hong kong, her father changed her name from mei ling to marilyn because, she says, he was obsessed with marilyn monroe. she's a poet, a translator, a novelist, and codirects the mfa program at sand diego state university. >> the woman wore a floral apron around her neck, that woman from my mother's village with a sharp cleaver in her hand. she said, "what shall we cook tonight? perhaps these six tiny squid lined up so perfectly on the block?" she wiped her hand on the apron, pierced the blade into the first. there was no resistance, no blood, only cartilage soft as child's nose. a last iota of ink made us wince. suddenly, the aroma of ginger and scallion fogged our senses, and we absolved her for that moment's barbarism. then she, an elder of the tribe, without formal headdress, without elegance, deigned to teach the younger about the asian plight. and although we have traveled far we must never forget that primal lesson-- on patience, courage, forbearan

captioned by the national captioning institute --www.ncicap.org-- >> garrison keillor: seamus heaney grew up the eldest of nine children on a 50 acre farm in northern ireland, his father a cattle dealer, his mother's family worked in the linen mills. when he was 12, he won a scholarship to a catholic school, learned latin and gaelic. over the years, his poetry has become enormously popular, especially since he won the nobel prize in literature in 1995. >> blackberry picking. late august, given heavy rain and sun for a full week, the blackberries would ripen. at first, just one-- a glossy purple clot among others, red, green, hard as a knot. you ate that first one, and its flesh was sweet like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for picking. then red ones inked up and that hunger sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. 'round hayfields, cornfields, and potato-drills we trekked and picked until the cans were full; until the tinkling bottom had been covered with green ones, and o

garrison keillor: matthew dickman grew up in portland, oregon, with his twin brother michael, who's also a poet. his first book, all-american poem, won the 2008 american poetry review/honickman first book prize in poetry. he says that "poetry rebuilds the rubble "grief and love can make of language into something sustaining, beautiful and life-affirming." "slow dance." more than putting another man on the moon, more than a new year's resolution of yogurt and yoga, we need the opportunity to dance with really exquisite strangers. a slow dance between the couch and dining room table, at the end of the party, while the person we love has gone to bring the car around because it's begun to rain and would break their heart if any part of us got wet. a slow dance to bring the evening home, two people rocking back and forth like a buoy. nothing extravagant. a little music. an empty bottle of whiskey. it's a little like cheating. your head resting on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck. your hands along her spine. her hips unfolding like a cotton napkin and you begin to think about how a

captioned by the national captioning institute --www.ncicap.org-- >> garrison keillor: w.s.rwin was born in new york city, the son of a minister. after college, he lived in europe for a number of years, translated spanish and french poetry, learned how to support himself as a freelance-- writing, speaking, giving readings. he moved to hawaii where he lives in a dense forest including rare species of palm trees that he's planted. "poetry," he says, "always begins and ends with listening." >> yesterday. my friend says, "i was not a good son, you understand." i say, "yes, i understand." he says, "i did not go to see my parents very often, you know." and i say, "yes, i know." "even when i was living in the same city," he says, "maybe i would go there once a month or maybe even less." i say, "oh, yes." he says, "the last time i went to see my father..." i say, "the last time i saw my father..." he says, "the last time i saw my father he was asking me about my life, how i was making out, and he went into the next room to get something to give me." "oh," i say feeling again the col

thank you for watching garrison keillor: born in augusta, maine, dorianne laux worked as a cook, a gason manager, a maid and a doughnut holer before receiving a b.a. in english. the author of four books of poems, she now lives with her husband, poet joseph millar, in raleigh, north carolina, where she teaches at north carolina state university. her book facts about the moon was a finalist for the national book critics circle award. "dust." someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. just a few words, but i recognized it. i knew i should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and i was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. now, i remember only the flavor-- not like food, sweet or sharp. more like a fine powder, like dust. and i wasn't elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware. that's how it is sometimes-- god comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you're just too tired to open it. (applause) >> hello and welcome to "global 3000." more and more knowledge is being stored online. today, we look at the opportunities and risks

. >> garrison keillor: c.d.right was born in mountain home, arkansas in the ozarks, went to college in arkansas and memphis, and lives now in rhode island. her books of poetry include one inspired by visits to louisiana state prisons. she once said, "poetry is a necessity of life. it is a function of poetry to locate those zones inside us that would be free and declare them so." >> lake echo, dear. is the woman in the pool of light really reading, or just staring at what is written? is the man walking in the soft rain naked, or is it the rain that makes his shirt transparent? the boy in the iron cot, is he asleep, or still fingering the springs underneath? did you honestly believe three lives could be complete? the bottle of green liquid on the sill, is it real? the bottle on the peeling sill, is it filled with green, or is the liquid an illusion of fullness? how summer's children turn into fish and rain softens men. how the elements of summer nights bid us to get down with each other on the unplaned floor. and

garrison keillor: after serving in the united states navy, galway kinnell was a field worker in the southuring the civil rights struggle of the 1960s. he's been a macarthur fellow, the state poet of vermont, and a winner of the pulitzer prize and the national book award. "a poem expresses one's most private feelings," he says, "and these turn out to be the feelings of everyone else as well." for i can snore like a bullhorn or play loud music or sit up talking with any reasonably sober irishman, and fergus will only sink deeper into his dreamless sleep, which goes by all in one flash. but let there be that heavy breathing or a stifled come cry anywhere in the house and he will wrench himself awake and make for it on the run. as now, we lie together, after making love, quiet, touching along the length of our bodies, familiar touch of the long-married, and he appears in his baseball pajamas, it happens, the neck opening so small he has to screw them on, and flops down between us and hugs us and snuggles himself to sleep, his face gleaming with satisfaction at being this very child. in the ha

. >> garrison keillor: the nicaraguan author daisy zamora has written five books of poetry in spanishduring the 1970s, she joined with the revolutionaries who opposed the nicaraguan dictator anastasio somoza. after somoza was ousted, she became vice minister for culture for the new government. her poems, essays, and translations have been published in magazines and literary journals all over the world. >> i do not doubt you would have liked one of those pretty mothers in the ads-- complete with adoring husband and happy children. she's always smiling, and if she cries at all it is absent of lights and camera, makeup washed from her face. but since you were born of my womb, i should tell you ever since i was small like you i wanted to be myself-- and for a woman that's hard. (even my guardian angel refused to watch over me when she heard.) ( laughter ) i cannot tell you that i know the road. often, i lose my way and my life has been a painful crossing-- navigating reefs, in and out of storms, refusing to listen to the ghostly sirens who invite me into the past, neither compass nor binn

. >> garrison keillor: maxine kumin lives on a farm in new hampshire where she breeds arabian and quarter horses, writing poetry, four novels, more than 20 children's books. she says, "i don't want to write poems that aren't necessary. i want to write poems that matter." >> this is a little one called after love. afterward, the compromise. bodies resume their boundaries. these legs, for instance, mine. your arms take you back in. spoons of our fingers, lips admit their ownership. the bedding yawns, a door blows aimlessly ajar and overhead, a plane singsongs coming down. nothing is changed, except there was a moment when the wolf, the mongering wolf who stands outside the self lay lightly down, and slept. ( applause ) thank you. /s s/ >>> facts and positive growth in the third quarter. the military restores calm. with home prices declining nationwide, china's economy is looking shaky. and in south korea, rice farmers are locking horns with a long time ally and protector. hello, you are watching "asia biz forecast." i'mee coe fukushima. this week, we look at the thai economy. business in th

. >> garrison keillor: w.s. merwin was born in new york city, the son of a minister.after college, he lived in europe for a number of years, translated spanish and french poetry, learned how to support himself as a freelance-- writing, speaking, giving readings. he moved to hawaii where he lives in a dense forest including rare species of palm trees that he's planted. "poetry," he says, "always begins and ends with listening." >> yesterday. my friend says, "i was not a good son, you understand." i say, "yes, i understand." he says, "i did not go to see my parents very often, you know." and i say, "yes, i know." "even when i was living in the same city," he says, "maybe i would go there once a month or maybe even less." i say, "oh, yes." he says, "the last time i went to see my father..." i say, "the last time i saw my father..." he says, "the last time i saw my father he was asking me about my life, how i was making out, and he went into the next room to get something to give me." "oh," i say feeling again the cold of my father's hand the last time. he says, "and my f

. >> garrison keillor: toi derricotte grew up outside detroit.with the poet cornelius eady, she cofounded cave canem, an organization committed to cultivating and supporting the work of african american poets. she says, "truth telling in my art is also a way to separate myself from what i have been taught to believe about myself-- the degrading stereotypes about black women." >> blackbottom. when relatives came from out of town, we would drive down to blackbottom. drive slowly down the congested main streets-- beaubien and hastings-- trapped in the mesh of saturday night. we were freshly escaped, black middle class. we snickered and were proud; the louder the streets, the prouder. we laughed at the bright clothes of a prostitute; a man sitting on a curb with a bottle in his hand. we smelled barbecue cooking in dented washtubs and our mouths watered. as much as we wanted it, we couldn't take the chance. rhythm and blues came from the windows, the throaty voice of a woman lost in the bass, in the drums, in the dirty down and out-- the grind. ♪"i lo

we also heard from many of you about jeffrey brown's profile of garrison keillor about the 40th anniversary of "a prairie home companion." monya hanson shenkenberg wrote: one of my favorite shows. always makes me smile and sometimes laugh out loud. and sandra luster-harper responded to keillor's suggestion to live for today. my mom left me the same philosophy the day before she passed. she never got to tomorrow. so i try to live in the moment. as always, let us know what you think of our stories, on twitter, facebook or at newshour.pbs.org some late news before we leave you tonight, a second american infected with ebola in liberia is expected to be flown to the united states in the next 72 hours, earlier today a special charter carrying the other stricken american landed at a military base. he is now hospitalized in an isolation ward in atlanta. both were in liberia to treat those suffering from the disease and israeli prime minister benjamin netanyahu warned hamas it would pay an intolerable price if it continues rocket fire on israel, this as israeli troops pulled back from some positions

. >> garrison keillor: seamus heaney grew up the eldest of nine children on a 50 acre farm in northernireland, his father a cattle dealer, his mother's family worked in the linen mills. when he was 12, he won a scholarship to a catholic school, learned latin and gaelic. over the years, his poetry has become enormously popular, especially since he won the nobel prize in literature in 1995. >> blackberry picking. late august, given heavy rain and sun for a full week, the blackberries would ripen. at first, just one-- a glossy purple clot among others, red, green, hard as a knot. you ate that first one, and its flesh was sweet like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for picking. then red ones inked up and that hunger sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. 'round hayfields, cornfields, and potato-drills we trekked and picked until the cans were full; until the tinkling bottom had been covered with green ones, and on top big, dark blobs burned like a plate of eyes. our hands were p

captioned by media access group at wgbh access.wgbh.org >> garrison keillor: toi derricotte grew up outsideetroit. with the poet cornelius eady, she cofounded cave canem, an organization committed to cultivating and supporting the work of african american poets. she says, "truth telling in my art is also a way to separate myself from what i have been taught to believe about myself-- the degrading stereotypes about black women." >> blackbottom. when relatives came from out of town, we would drive down to blackbottom. drive slowly down the congested main streets-- beaubien and hastings-- trapped in the mesh of saturday night. we were freshly escaped, black middle class. we snickered and were proud; the louder the streets, the prouder. we laughed at the bright clothes of a prostitute; a man sitting on a curb with a bottle in his hand. we smelled barbecue cooking in dented washtubs and our mouths watered. as much as we wanted it, we couldn't take the chance. rhythm and blues came from the windows, the throaty voice of a woman lost in the bass, in the drums, in the dirty down and out-- the grind

garrison keillor: a native of california, kay ryan taught basic english at the college of marin for more than 30 years. appointed united states poet laureate in 2008, she's the author of six books, including the niagara river, flamingo watching and say uncle. she says her poems don't begin with images or sounds but the way an oyster does, with an aggravation. "turtle." who would be a turtle who could help it? a barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, she can ill afford the chances she must take in rowing toward the grasses that she eats. her track is graceless, like dragging a packing case places, and almost any slope defeats her modest hopes. even being practical, she's often stuck up to the axle on her way to something edible. with everything optimal, she skirts the ditch which would convert her shell into a serving dish. she lives below luck level, never imagining some lottery will change her load of pottery to wings. her only levity is patience, the sport of truly chastened things. (applause) does god exist? most people seem sure. some sure that god does exist. others sure that