Wednesday, August 13, 2014

In Memorium

While the world mourns Robin Williams, and fans stand on desks in tribute, quoting Walt Whitman's O Captain! My Captain! I think of Williams as Patch Adams, the doctor who treated illness with humor and death with dignity (and mooned the crowd at his medical school graduation).

At his beloved's grave site Williams, as Adams quoted Pablo Neruda's beautiful Sonnet 17 of 100 Love Sonnets, often referred to as "I do not love you."

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms,
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

There will never be another like him...Neruda, Adams or Robin. Rest in peace.