Oegemantsje
Binnen yn in soad fan ús
sit in lyts âld mantsje
dat derút wol.
Net grutter as in twajierrige
dy’tst teletubby neame soest,
mar dizze is âld en mishipt.
Syn holle is yn oarder,
mar de rest fan him wie net krimpfrij.
Hy is in meunster fan wanhoop.
Hy is ien en al ferfal.
Hy praat sa skriel as in tillefoanheak
mei de seksleaze stim fan Truman:
Ik bin dyn dwerch.
Ik bin de fijân fan binnen.
Ik bin de baas fan dyn dreamen.
Nee. Ik bin net de wet yn dyn brein,
de pake fol wachens.
Ik bin de wet fan dyn lea,
de sibbe fan swartens en drift.
Sjoch. Dyn hân trillet.
Net troch ferlamming of drank.
It is dyn dûbelgonger
dy’t war docht om derút te kommen.
Pas op… Pas op…
Der wie ris in moolner
mei in dochter sa leaflik as in drúf.
Hy fertelde de kening, sy koe
goud spinne út gewoan strie.
De kening liet it famke komme,
sleat har op yn in keamer fol strie
en sei har dêr goud fan te spinnen
of se soe stjerre as in misdiediger.
Earme drúf, net ien dy’t har plôke.
Lekker en rûn en glêd.
Stakker.
Stjerre en nea Brooklyn sjen.
Se gûlde,
uteraard, dikke triennen fan akwamaryn.
De doar gong iepen en hopsa, in dwerch.
Hy wie sa lillik as in wrat.
Lyts ding, wat bisto? rôp se.
Mei syn skriele, seksleaze stim andere er:
Ik bin in dwerch.
Ik bin tentoansteld yn Bond Street
en gjin bern sil my ea Heity neame.
Ik haw gjin priveelibben. Bin ik dronken,
dan wit de hiele stêd dat by it moarnsbrochje
en gjin bern sil my ea Heity neame.
Ik bin trije turven heech.
Ik bin net grutter as in patrys.
Ik bin dyn kweade each
en gjin bern sil my ea Heity neame.
Hâld op mei dy Heity-gekkichheid,
rôp se. Kinsto faaks
strie ta goud spinne?
Jawis, sei er,
dat kin ik.
Hy spûn it strie ta goud
en sy joech him har halsketting
as in lytse beleanning.
Doe’t de kening seach wat se dien hie
sette er har yn in gruttere keamer fol strie
en drige nochris mei de dea.
En wer gûlde se.
En wer kaam de dwerch.
En wer spûn er it strie ta goud.
Se joech him har ring
as in lytse beleanning.
De kening sette har yn in noch gruttere keamer
mar diskear sei er har ta
dat er har trouwe soe as it har slagge.
En wer gûlde se.
En wer kaam de dwerch.
Mar se hie neat om him te jaan.
Sûnder beleanning woe de dwerch net spinne.
Hy hie de lucht fan wat betters yn ’e noas.
Hy wie in echte jachthûn.
Jou my dyn earsteling,
dan sil ik spinne.
Sy tocht: ’t Soe wat!
It is in gek mantsje.
Dat se gong akkoart.
En hy die syn keunstke.
Goud sa goed as Fort Knox.
De kening troude har
en binnen in jier
waard in soan berne.
Lykas de measte nije babys
wie er sa ûnsjoch as in artisjok
mar de keninginne fûn him in pearel.
Sy joech him har stomme tate,
tear, triljend, beskûle,
waarm ensfh.
En doe oppenearre de dwerch him
en easke syn priis op.
Jawis! Ik bin in heity wurden!
rôp de lytse man.
Se bea him it hiele keninkryk oan
mar hy woe inkeld dit –
in libben ding
syn eigen neame.
En wa kin it him, stjerling,
kwea ôf nimme?
De keninginne gûlde twa amers fol seewetter.
Se wie like fêsthâldend
as in Jehova’s tsjûge.
Dat de dwerch krige meilijen.
Hy sei: Ik jou dy trije dagen
om myn namme te rieden
en ast dat net kinst
kom ik dyn bern heljen.
De keninginne stjoerde boadskippers
troch it lân om de meast
útwrydske nammen te finen.
Doe’t er de oare deis kaam
frege se: Melchior?
Baltasar?
Mar elke kear andere de dwerch:
Nee! Nee! Sa hjit ik net.
In dei letter frege se:
Skriezepoat? Spinneskonk?
Mar it wie noch altyd nee-nee.
De tredde deis kaam de boadskipper
werom mei in nuver ferhaal.
Hy fertelde har:
Doe’t ik oare kant it wâld wie,
dêr’t de foks goenacht seit tsjin de hazze,
seach ik in lyts hûs
mei in brânend fjoer derfoar.
Om dat fjoer hinne sprong op ien skonk
in kluchtich mantsje dat song:
Hjoed bak ik. Moarn brou ik bier.
Oaremoarn wurdt de keninginne
har iennichst bern fan my.
Sels de folkstellingsamtner wit net
dat ik Oegemantsje hjit…
De keninginne wie optein.
Se hie de namme!
It waard har gleon om it hert.
Doe’t de dwerch weromkaam
rôp se út:
Hjitsto hiel miskien Oegemantsje?
Hy raasde: Dat hat de duvel dy sein!
Hy stampte syn rjochterfoet de grûn yn
en sonk der oant syn middel yn fuort.
Doe skuorde er himsels midstwa.
In bytsje as in opsplitste brette hoanne.
Hy lei syn beide helten op de flier,
ien part sêft as in frou,
ien part in heak mei wjerheakjes,
ien part heity,
ien part dûbelgonger.
Rumpelstiltskin
Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
No bigger than a two-year-old
whom you’d call lamb chop
yet this one is old and malformed.
His head is okay
but the rest of him wasn’t Sanforized.
He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone
with Truman’s asexual voice:
I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
No. I am not the law in your mind,
the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members,
the kindred of blackness and impulse.
See. Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or booze.
It is your Doppelgänger
trying to get out.
Beware . . . Beware . . .
There once was a miller
with a daughter as lovely as a grape.
He told the king that she could
spin gold out of common straw.
The king summoned the girl
and locked her in a room full of straw
and told her to spin it into gold
or she would die like a criminal.
Poor grape with no one to pick.
Luscious and round and sleek.
Poor thing.
To die and never see Brooklyn.
She wept,
of course, huge aquamarine tears.
The door opened and in popped a dwarf.
He was as ugly as a wart.
Little thing, what are you? she cried.
With his tiny no-sex voice he replied:
I am a dwarf.
I have been exhibited on Bond Street
and no child will ever call me Papa.
I have no private life.
If I’m in my cups the whole town knows by breakfast
and no child will ever call me Papa
I am eighteen inches high.
I am no bigger than a partridge.
I am your evil eye
and no child will ever call me Papa.
Stop this Papa foolishness,
she cried. Can you perhaps
spin straw into gold?
Yes indeed, he said,
that I can do.
He spun the straw into gold
and she gave him her necklace
as a small reward.
When the king saw what she had done
he put her in a bigger room of straw
and threatened death once more.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
Again he spun the straw into gold.
She gave him her ring
as a small reward.
The king put her in an even bigger room
but this time he promised
to marry her if she succeeded.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
But she had nothing to give him.
Without a reward the dwarf would not spin.
He was on the scent of something bigger.
He was a regular bird dog.
Give me your first-born
and I will spin.
She thought: Piffle!
He is a silly little man.
And so she agreed.
So he did the trick.
Gold as good as Fort Knox.
The king married her
and within a year
a son was born.
He was like most new babies,
as ugly as an artichoke
but the queen thought him in pearl.
She gave him her dumb lactation,
delicate, trembling, hidden,
warm, etc.
And then the dwarf appeared
to claim his prize.
Indeed! I have become a papa!
cried the little man.
She offered him all the kingdom
but he wanted only this –
a living thing
to call his own.
And being mortal
who can blame him?
The queen cried two pails of sea water.
She was as persistent
as a Jehovah’s Witness.
And the dwarf took pity.
He said: I will give you
three days to guess my name
and if you cannot do it
I will collect your child.
The queen sent messengers
throughout the land to find names
of the most unusual sort.
When he appeared the next day
she asked: Melchior?
Balthazar?
But each time the dwarf replied:
No! No! That’s not my name.
The next day she asked:
Spindleshanks? Spiderlegs?
But it was still no-no.
On the third day the messenger
came back with a strange story.
He told her:
As I came around the corner of the wood
where the fox says good night to the hare
I saw a little house with a fire
burning in front of it.
Around that fire a ridiculous little man
was leaping on one leg and singing:
Today I bake.
Tomorrow I brew my beer.
The next day the queen’s only child will be mine.
Not even the census taker knows
that Rumpelstiltskin is my name . . .
The queen was delighted.
She had the name!
Her breath blew bubbles.
When the dwarf returned
she called out:
Is your name by any chance Rumpelstiltskin?
He cried: The devil told you that!
He stamped his right foot into the ground
and sank in up to his waist.
Then he tore himself in two.
Somewhat like a split broiler.
He laid his two sides down on the floor,
one part soft as a woman,
one part a barbed hook,
one part papa,
one part Doppelgänger.
Ut Transformations, 1971
lamb chop – Lamb Chop wie in hânpop, yn Amearika faken op tillefyzje te sjen, dy’t brûkt waard troch de búksprekster en poppespylster Shari Lewis (1933–1998).
Sanforized – Sanforization is it behanneljen fan tekstyl om krimp troch waskjen foar te kommen, neffens in prosedee ûntwikkele troch Sanford Lockwood Cluett (1874–1968).
Truman’s asexual voice – Wierskynlik Truman Capote (1924–1984), skriuwer fan Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1958) en In cold blood (1966), waans koarte stal (160 sm) en hege, nasale stim bekend wienen fan syn optredens op tillefyzje. Capote wenne nammers in skoft yn it New Yorkse stedsdiel Brooklyn en skreau dêroer yn Brooklyn Heights. A personal memoir (1959). Der is ek wol oannommen dat Sexton ferwiist nei Harry S. Truman (1884–1972), presidint fan de Feriene Steaten yn 1945–1953, mar dat liket fiersocht.
Bond Street – Strjitte yn Brooklyn. In bewenner fan Bond Street yn de njoggentjinde iuw wie Phineas Taylor Barnum (1810–1891), oprjochter fan it rûnreizgjende Barnum & Bailey Circus. Under de artystenamme General Tom Thumb wie Charles Sherwood Stratton (1838–1883) dêr yn te sjen; syn lichemslingte wie 102 sm. It is net oannimlik dat Bond Street yn Londen bedoeld is, sa’t guon ynterpretatoaren miene.
Fort Knox – Legerpost yn Kentucky, dy’t ek brûkt wurdt as United States Bullion Depository, de Amerikaanske goudopslach.
