Jiskepûster
Je lêze der altyd oer:
de leadjitter mei tolve bern
dy’t de Irish Sweepstakes wint.
Fan wc’s nei wielde.
Dat ferhaal.
Of de au pair,
in lekker ding út Denemarken,
dy’t it hert stelt fan de âldste soan.
Fan ruften nei Dior.
Dat ferhaal.
Of de molkboer dy’t de riken betsjinnet,
aaien, rjemme, bûter, yochert, molke,
de wite karre in ambulânse lyk,
dy’t yn ûnreplik goed giet en fortún makket.
Fan homogenisearre molke
nei martini’s by de lunch.
Of de skjinmakster
dy’t yn de bus sit as dy ferûngelokket
en royaal útkeard krijt fan de fersekering.
Fan swabbers nei Bonwit Teller.
Dat ferhaal.
Der wie ris
in frou fan in rike man dy’t op har deabêd
tsjin har dochter Jiskepûster sei:
Wês from. Wês froed. Dan sil ik glimkje
út de himel wei yn de râne fan in wolk.
De man naam in oare frou
dy’t twa dochters hie, moaiernôch
mar mei herten as klabatsen.
Jiskepûster wie harren tsjinstfaam.
Se sliepte elke nacht yn de roetswarte hurd
en rûn om as wie se Al Jolson.
Har heit brocht kadootsjes mei út ’e stêd,
juwielen en jurken foar de oare froulju,
mar foar Jiskepûster in beamtwiich.
Se plante dy twiich op it grêf fan har mem
en der woeks in beam út op mei in wite do deryn.
Elke kear dat se wat winske, liet de do
it as in aai op de grûn falle.
In wichtige fûgel, myn leaverts, dus hear him oan.
Doe kaam it bal, sa’t elk fan jimme wit.
It wie in houliksmerk.
De prins socht om in frou.
Elkien, útsein Jiskepûster, riste har ta
en tutte har op foar it grutte barren.
Jiskepûster smeekte, mei ik ek mei.
Har styfmem smiet in skûtel reade earten
yn de sintels en sei: Garje se
binnen in oere op, dan meist derhinne.
De wite do brocht al syn freontsjes mei;
alle waarme wjukken fan it faderlân kamen
en pjukten woepsty de reade earten op.
Nee, Jiskepûster, sei de styfmem,
do hast gjin klean en kinst net dûnsje.
Sa giet dat mei styfmemmen.
Jiskepûster gong nei de beam by it grêf
en krite lûd as in gospelsjongster:
Memke! Memke! Myn toarteldo,
Stjoer my nei de prins syn bal!
De do liet in gouden jurk falle
en fragile gouden mûltsjes.
In frij grut pakket foar in simpele fûgel.
Dat se gong. Wat jin gjin nij docht.
Har styfmem en susters koenen har
sûnder har sintelgesicht net wer
en de prins naam har hân wêr’t se by stie,
hy dûnse de hiele dei mei nimmen oars.
Doe’t de nacht foel tocht se dat se better
op hûs oan koe. De prins rûn mei har op
en se ferdwûn yn it dowehok
en hoewol’t de prins it mei in bile iepenbruts
wie se fuort. Werom nei har sintels.
Dat werhelle him trije dagen oanien.
Mar op de tredde dei bestruts de prins
de paleistrep mei skuonmakkerswas.
Jiskepûster har gouden skoech plakte dêryn fêst.
No soe er dy’t de skoech paste fine
en hie er syn frjemde dûnsfamke foargoed.
Hy gong nei harren hûs en de beide susters
wienen optein want sy hienen moaie fuotten.
De âldste gong in keamer yn en paste it mûltsje
mar har grutte tean siet yn ’t paad, dat se
fike dy simpelwei ôf en luts it mûltsje oan.
De prins ried mei har fuort oant de wite do
him sei ris nei dat spoar fan bloed te sjen.
Sa giet dat mei amputaasjes.
Dy hielje net samar om’t je dat wolle.
De oare suster snied har hakke ôf
mar it bloed spruts sa’t bloed docht.
De prins krige syn nocht derfan.
Hy fielde him suver in skuonferkeaper.
Mar hy weage noch ien skot.
Diskear paste Jiskepûster yn de skoech
as in leafdesbrief yn syn slúf.
By de houliksplechtichheid
kamen de beide susters omflaaien
en de wite do pjukte harren de eagen út.
Der wienen inkeld noch twa lege gatten
as sopleppels.
Jiskepûster en de prins
libben, sizze se, noch lang en lokkich,
as twa poppen yn in museumfitrine,
nea hienen se lêst fan ruften of stof,
nea spul oer hoelang’t in aai siede moat,
nea fertelden se twaris itselde ferhaal,
nea krigen se in middelbere-leeftyd-búkje,
harren ynleave glim siet foar ivich opplakt.
Op en top Bobbsey Twins.
Dat ferhaal.
Cinderella
You always read about it:
the plumber with twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.
Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son’s heart.
from diapers to Dior.
That story.
Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.
Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.
Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother’s grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.
Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That’s the way with stepmothers.
Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince’s ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little gold slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn’t
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.
As nightfall came she thought she’d better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler’s wax
and Cinderella’s gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
They just don’t heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.
At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.
Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.
Ut Transformations, 1971
Yn Transformations bondele Anne Sexton santjin faken grimmitige neifertellings fan mearkes fan de bruorren Grimm. Sy bejegenet yn har ferzjes de stereotipen fan goed en kwea, fan folmakke en wanskepen mei irony, lit ûnderlizzende machtsstruktueren trochskine en fersmyt de happy end as in leagen. Ek bringt se de mearkes nei de wrâld fan har lêzers en harsels, troch der eigentiidske en autobiografyske eleminten yn te befrisseljen. Dat makket in pear annotaasjes miskien winsklik.
Irish Sweepstakes – Lotterij yn Ierlân, bedoeld foar it stypjen fan sikehûzen. Bûten Ierlân benammen populêr yn it Feriene Keninkryk en de Feriene Steaten. Hat bestien fan 1930 oant 1986.
Dior – Frânske lúkseguod-multinational, oarspronklik in moadehûs, oprjochte yn 1948 troch de couturier Christian Dior.
Bonwit Teller – New Yorks warehûs mei filialen yn Boston, Philadelphia en oare stêden, spesjalisearre yn djoere frouljusmoade. Promote ûnder oare Christian Dior. Hat bestien fan 1895 oant 2000.
Al Jolson – Asa Yoelson (1886–1950) krige as de sjonger Al Jolson grutte bekendheid mei optredens op Broadway, yn films en foar radio en tillefyzje. Jolson stie geregeld op it poadium as blackface: mei in swart sminkt gesicht.
Bobbsey Twins – De beide twillingen – twaris in jonge en in famke – yn it gesin Bobbsey, haadfigueren yn in rige fan 72 berneboeken. De rige The Bobbsey Twins ferskynde tusken 1904 en 1979 en waard skreaun troch Edward L. Stratemeyer en oaren ûnder it pseudonym Laura Lee Hope.
