In this category:

Or see the index

All categories

  4. EXHIBITION – art, art history, photos, paintings, drawings, sculpture, ready-mades, video, performing arts, collages, gallery, etc.
  5. FICTION & NON-FICTION – books, booklovers, lit. history, biography, essays, translations, short stories, columns, literature: celtic, beat, travesty, war, dada & de stijl, drugs, dead poets
  6. FLEURSDUMAL POETRY LIBRARY – classic, modern, experimental & visual & sound poetry, poetry in translation, city poets, poetry archive, pre-raphaelites, editor's choice, etc.
  7. LITERARY NEWS & EVENTS – art & literature news, in memoriam, festivals, city-poets, writers in Residence
  9. MUSEUM OF LOST CONCEPTS – invisible poetry, conceptual writing, spurensicherung
  10. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY – department of ravens & crows, birds of prey, riding a zebra
  12. MUSIC
  15. STORY ARCHIVE – olv van de veestraat, reading room, tales for fellow citizens
  18. TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young
  19. ULTIMATE LIBRARY – danse macabre, ex libris, grimm & co, fairy tales, art of reading, tales of mystery & imagination, sherlock holmes theatre, erotic poetry, ideal women
  20. WAR & PEACE
  21. ·

  1. Subscribe to new material:
    RSS     ATOM

Tietjens, Eunice

· Eunice Tietjens: The Altar of Heaven · Eunice Tietjens: The Beggar · Eunice Tietjens: Woman · Eunice Tietjens: The Hand · Eunice Tietjens: The Dandy · Eunice Tietjens: The Camels · Eunice Tietjens: On the Canton River Boat

Eunice Tietjens: The Altar of Heaven


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)


The Altar of Heaven


Beneath the leaning, rain-washed sky this great white



In three white terraces the circle lies, piled one on

one toward Heaven. And on each terrace the

white balustrade climbs in aspiring marble, etched

in cloud.

And Heaven is very near.

For this is worship native as the air, wide as the

wind, and poignant as the rain,

Pure aspiration, the eternal dream.


Beneath the leaning sky this great white circle!



Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: The Beggar


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)


The Beggar


“Christ! What is that–that–Thing?

Only a beggar, professionally maimed, I think.”


Across the narrow street it lies, the street where little

children are.

It is rocking its body back and forth, back and forth,

ingratiatingly, in the noisome filth.

Beside the body are stretched two naked stumps of

flesh, on one the remnant of a foot. The wounds

are not new wounds, but they are open and they

fester. There are flies on them.

The Thing is whining, shrilly, hideously.


“Professionally maimed, I think.”



(Hwai Yuen)

Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: Woman



Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)




Strangely the sight of you moves me.

I have no standard by which to appraise you; the outer

shell of you is all I know.

Yet irresistibly you draw me.


Your small plump body is closely clad in blue brocaded

satin. The fit is scrupulous, yet no woman’s figure

is revealed. You are decorously shapeless.

Your satin trousers even are lined with fur.

Your hair is stiff and lustrous as polished ebony, bound

at the neck in an adamantine knot, in which dull

pearls are encrusted.


Your face is young and round and inscrutably alien.

Your complexion is exquisite, matte gold over-lying

blush pink, textured like ripe fruit.

Your nose is flat, the perfect nose of China.

Your eyes–your eyes are witchery!

The blank curtain of your upper lid droops sharply on

the iris, and when you smile the corners twinkle


It is your eyes, I think, that move me.

They are so bright, so black!

They are alert and full of curiosity as the eyes of a

squirrel, and like the eyes of a squirrel they have

no depth behind them.

They are windows opening on a world as small as your

bound feet, a world of ignorances, and vacuities,

and kitchen-gods.


And yet your eyes are witchery. When you smile you

are the woman-spirit, adorable.


I cannot appraise you, yet strangely the sight of you

moves me.

I believe that I shall dream of you.



Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: The Hand


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)


The Hand


As you sit so, in the firelight, your hand is the color of

new bronze.

I cannot take my eyes from your hand;

In it, as in a microcosm, the vast and shadowy Orient

is made visible.

Who shall read me your hand?


You are a large man, yet it is small and narrow, like the

hand of a woman and the paw of a chimpanzee.

It is supple and boneless as the hands wrought in pigment

by a fashionable portrait painter. The tapering

fingers bend backward.

Between them burns a scented cigarette. You poise it

with infinite daintiness, like a woman under the

eyes of her lover. The long line of your curved

nail is fastidiousness made flesh.


Very skilful is your hand.

With a tiny brush it can feather lines of ineffable suggestion,

glints of hidden beauty. With a little

tool it can carve strange dreams in ivory and

milky jade.


And cruel is your hand.

With the same cold daintiness and skill it can devise

exquisite tortures, eternities of incredible pain,

that Torquemada never glimpsed.

And voluptuous is your hand, nice in its sense of touch.

Delicately it can caress a quivering skin, softly it can

glide over golden thighs…. Bilitis had not

such long nails.


Who can read me your hand?

In the firelight the smoke curls up fantastically from

the cigarette between your fingers which are the

color of new bronze.

The room is full of strange shadows.

I am afraid of your hand….


 (From The Interior)

Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine 

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: The Dandy


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)


The Dandy


He swaggers in green silk and his two coats are lined

with fur. Above his velvet shoes his trim, bound

ankles twinkle pleasantly.

His nails are of the longest.

Quite the glass of fashion is Mr. Chu!

In one slim hand–the ultimate punctilio–dangles

a bamboo cage, wherein a small brown bird sits

with a face of perpetual surprise.

Mr. Chu smiles the benevolent smile of one who satisfies

both fashion and a tender heart.

Does not a bird need an airing?




Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: The Camels


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)


The Camels


Whence do you come, and whither make return, you

silent padding beasts?

Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to

Kalgan–and beyond, whither?…


Here in the city you are alien, even as I am alien.

Your sidling jaw, your pendulous neck–incredible–and

that slow smile about your eyes and lip,

these are not of this land.

About you some far sense of mystery, some tawny

charm, hangs ever.

Silently, with the dignity of the desert, your caravans

move among the hurrying hordes, remote and

slowly smiling.


But whence are you, and whither do you make return?

Over the mountain passes; through the Great Wall; to

Kalgan–and beyond, whither?…



Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Eunice Tietjens: On the Canton River Boat


Eunice Tietjens

(1884 – 1944)



On the Canton River Boat


Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry.

He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are

green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and

from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch.

He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.


Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow

sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a

background in a dream.

He only is sweltering reality.

Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an

anachronism, something that I cannot grasp.

He is guarding me from pirates.


Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored

like a toucan in the zoo.

And yet the ordinance is clear: “Four armed guards,

strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room

enclosed–in case of piracy.”


The socks of the sentry are green.

Up and down, up and down he paces, between the

bridge and the first of the life-boats.

In my deck chair I grow restless.


Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in

cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization,

that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth?

It is a disquieting thought–for certainly piracy seems

as fantastic as ever.


The socks of the sentry annoy me. They are _too_

green for so hot a day.

And his shoes squeak.

I should feel much cooler if he wouldn’t pace so.



(Somewhere on the River)


Eunice Tietjens poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Tietjens, Eunice

Thank you for reading FLEURSDUMAL.NL - magazine for art & literature