Look not in my eyes, for fear

XV

Look not in my eyes, for fear

  They mirror true the sight I see,

And there you find your face too clear

  And love it and be lost like me.

One the long nights through must lie

  Spent in star-defeated sighs,

But why should you as well as I

  Perish? gaze not in my eyes.

 

A Grecian lad, as I hear tell,

  One that many loved in vain,

Looked into a forest well

  And never looked away again.

There, where the turf in springtime flowers,

   With downward eye and gazes sad,

Stands amid the glancing showers

  A jonquil, not a Grecian lad.

 

-A. E. Housman

 

I was googling poems about eyes earlier in the week and reminded myself of this. The second stanza is a reference to Narcissus, who, of course, fell in love with his own image in a pond, and was so stationary from that time on, he was turned into a flower. A Shropshire Lad comes out in 1896, when Housman was 26, and presumably the first verse refers to the great, almost certainly Platonic, love of his early life, Moses Jackson.

 

I can't think of Housman without thinking of two other things. One is the Wendy Cope poem:

 

Another Unfortunate Choice 

I think I'm in love with A. E. Housman

Which puts me in a terrible fix,

No woman ever stood a chance with Housman

And he's been dead since 1936.

 

-Wendy Cope 

 

And the other thing Housman's very name brings to mind? The hilarious Fragment of a Greek Tragedy, of course. But that's for another day.

Lord Lucky

Lord Lucky

Lord Lucky, by a curious fluke,

Became a most important duke.

From living in a vile Hotel

A long way east of Camberwell

He rose, in less than half an hour,

To riches, dignity, and power.

It happened in the following way:

The Real Duke went out one day

To shoot with several people, one

Of whom had never used a gun.

This gentleman (a Mr Meyer

Of Rabley Abbey, Rutlandshire),

As he was scrambling through the brake,

Discharged his weapon by mistake,

And plugged about an ounce of lead

Piff-bang into his Grace's Head--

Who naturally fell down dead.

His Heir, Lord Ugly, roared, 'You Brute!

Take that to teach you how to shoot!'

Whereat he volleyed, left and right;

But being somewhat short of sight,

His right-hand barrel only got

The second heir, Lord Poddleplot;

The while the left-hand charge (or choke)

Accounted for another bloke,

Who stood with an astounded air

Bewildered by the whole affair

--And was the third remaining heir.

After the Execution (which

Is something rare among the Rich)

Lord Lucky, while of course he needed

Some help to prove his claim, succeeded.

--But after his succession, though

All this was over years ago,

He only once indulged his whim

Of asking Meyer to lunch with him.

 

-Hilaire Belloc

 

The poem is mostly written in iambic tetrameter couplets, but two of the three deaths get a third rhyme. Poor Lord Poddleplot doesn't even get that third rhyme.

Whenever I think of this poem I'm always reminded of Kind Hearts and Coronets, though Lord Lucky is lucky in ways the Alec Guinness character--in any of his shapes--is distinctly not...

 

 

 

van de Wetering's Tumbleweed

"Have you noticed that nothing ever happens in Amsterdam?"

Doesn't that just tell you something's about to happen?

The beautiful Maria van Buren is found murdered on her houseboat when a neighbour becomes worried about her cat, who doesn't seem to be getting food at home.

It's Grijpstra and de Gier, Amsterdam detectives, hanging around, bored at the office, who catch the case when the request comes to check up on von Braun. That's Grijpstra complaining above.

But they'd already been keeping an eye on the von Braun houseboat since the Dutch Secret Service had asked them to. So they arrive with a warrant, break a window, and discover the dead woman with a British commando knife that has been thrown, not plunged, into Maria von Braun's back. 

Maria von Braun had her luxurious houseboat because she was sleeping with three well-to-do men, a senior American Army officer, a Belgian diplomat, and a Dutch industrialist. That combination was why the Secret Service was interested. She was estranged from her family in Dutch Curaçao who disapproved of her lifestyle. And she was engaged in sorcery.

All that provides a decently satisfying list of suspects. Who wanted to do it? Who has an alibi? Who had access to a commando knife and knew how to throw it?

Grijpstra and de Gier are protagonists of a series of fourteen novels, plus a volume of short stories, by Janwillem van de Wetering. Grijpstra is the bachelor who likes motorcycles and has a cat of his own; de Gier is the married one, a bit more sensible, though now running to fat. They make a good team. The Commisaris (which, I assume, is Dutch for commissioner) who is their boss, has a significant part in this one. He's never given a name, but he's a likeable character. This is the second in the series and dates from 1976. It was a strong entry, I thought, and may be the best of the ones I've read. I'd say the series is more about mood than particularly tricky or thrilling plots, though this had both some trickiness and thrills.

I haven't been reviewing many books lately (though reading lots) and need to knock off a few for my European Reading Challenge:

Hadn't been to the Netherlands yet this year, but now I have!