I Mourn for Robin Williams,
Whose life was suffused in all his acting parts.
By contrast, as a writer,
I am the missing part in all my books,
Save two: my collection of Days of Awe
And Jeanie and the Gentle-Folk.
In those books I am searching for—
I am no Robin Williams,
For Whom Each Part is Him
Whether the Kind and Wise Teacher;
Or the Doctor Disguised as a Clown;
Or the Divorced Father Who Loves His Children;
Or the Criminal at the Photo Shoot;
Or the Liar who saved a Ghetto’s Hope;
Or the Demented Kiddie-Show Host.
All these parts to a man full of Life
Though the Illusion that he controlled
The Dark Within ended in Suicide.
No, I am somebody
Who the Truth hides from,
And I am always searching—
For something, I know not what.
My Unfinished Books,
The Days of Awe and
Jeanie and the Gentlefolk
Stretch back to childhood
but can’t find adulthood.
Though I cry for Robin Williams—
As I suppose every watcher of
Dead Poets’ Society did—
I wonder if I, too, am caught in the Dark.