Author’s Note: I’ve long loved Walt Whitman’s work for many reasons, and this piece—“Walt Whitman at the Playground”—echoes one of them: his enthusiastic joy at everyday moments, a joy that often strikes me as augmented by an ever-present thought for mortality. I wrote the poem at the playground in question, watching my daughters at play and the people around me, grateful that we were all alive together at this one moment.
Walt Whitman at the Playground
To see my be-legginged daughter leap o’er the mulch,
brown hair burnished bronze!
To hear her laugh! To be a laugh!
O! To watch the penduluming swingers,
faces now toward heaven, and now toward earth!
To what arc, O my soul, could I better aspire!
O yogapanted mothers! O cargoshorted fathers!
O floralwrapped caregivers on benches—
What song could I sing thee, O love incarnate?
Answer: a hymn of fellowship, a litany of praise,
a reminder that the leaves have already begun their descent,
and you will not be back.
⧫
Adam Tamashasky teaches writing at American University, in Washington, D.C. In addition to the Delmarva Review, his work has appeared in The Cold Mountain Review, the Innisfree Poetry Journal, and recently in the international anthology Singing in the Dark: A Global Anthology of Poetry Under Lockdown, published by Penguin. His website is: adamtamashasky.com
Delmarva Review publishes the best of new poetry and prose selected from thousands of submissions annually. Designed to encourage outstanding writing, it is an independent, nonprofit literary publication. Financial support comes from tax-deductible contributions, sales, and a grant from the Talbot County Arts Council with funds from the Maryland State Arts Council. Website: DelmarvaReview.org.
Write a Letter to the Editor on this Article
We encourage readers to offer their point of view on this article by submitting the following form. Editing is sometimes necessary and is done at the discretion of the editorial staff.