Saturday, June 13, 2009

Gogarty and Cobequid

Lela, dearest Leal, are your wheels stuck fast in the mud? In his dream he sees a frail thinly woman laying under a great oak, legs splayed open, her delicate fingers worrying the hem of her skirts. Gogarty and Cobequid, colporteurs, inveigled Mrs. Mariánské Lázně into buying them both a pair of cobbled shoes. ‘…that’ll be enough of that…’ she quipped, returning to her sunbathing, her reprieve from the doldrums of life. Her hair worried into a hag’s knot, Lela pulls herself up from the muck and sets about the day, the sun on her face blisteringly hot. Letting go of the bollard, the curbstone prickling her hands, Lela humps herself free and sets about the day, a pair of newly cobbled men’s shoes on her childlike feet. Muddied, she sets out, the sun scoring lines in her whey soft face. The lamplighter gives her a wink, his wick burnt down to the handle. ‘…a fine sunshiny day my dear…’ he says smiling, ‘…best day in years…’. This will never do, never! Shoes are God’s gift to one’s feet! Cobblers beware, should you care for the goodwill of you children see fit that you nail, stitch and hobnail shoes fit for a King. Nothing less will do. Nothing I say, nothing! Pouring himself a tin of Coober’s Rye the alms man set about the day, his alms cap placed brim-side up on the henpecked concrete in front of him.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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