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Meditações - Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon

Epistle to Miss Blount, On Her Leaving the Town, After the Coronation


As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care

Drags from the town to wholesome country air,

Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,

And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

From the dear man unwillingly she must sever,

Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:

Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,

Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;

Not that their pleasures caused her discontent,

She sighed not that They stayed, but that She went.

She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,

Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks,

She went from Opera, park, assembly, play,

To morning walks, and prayers three hours a day;

To pass her time ‘twixt reading and Bohea,

To muse, and spill her solitary tea,

Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;

Up to her godly garret after seven,

There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heaven.

Some Squire, perhaps, you take a delight to rack;

Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack,

Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,

Then gives a smacking buss, and cries – No words!

Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,

Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;

Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,

And loves you best of all things – but his horse.

In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,

Your dream of triumphs in the rural shade;

In pensive thought recall the fancied scene,

See Coronations rise on every green;

Before you pass th’ imaginary sights

Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and gartered Knights;

While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes;

Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

Thus vanish scepters, coronets, and balls,

And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls.

So when your slave, at some dear, idle time,

(Not plagued with headaches, or the want of rhyme)

Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,

And while he seems to study, thinks of you:

Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,

Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,

Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite;

Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;

Vexed to be still in town, I knit my brow,

Look sour, and hum a tune – as you may now.


Alexander Pope

sexta-feira, 30 de agosto de 2024

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Meditações - it never can be that age, time, or death, can divide thee and me!

Auld Robin Forbes


And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance,

I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance;

I thout o’ the days when I was but fifteen,

And skipp’d wi’ the best upon Forbes’s green.

Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,

It brings that that’s by-past and sets it down here;

I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,

When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.

 

The lasses aw wonder’d what Willy cud see

In yen that was dark and hard featur’d leyke me;

And they wonder’d ay mair when they talk’d o’ my wit,

And slily telt Willy that cudn’t be it:

But Willy he laugh’d, and he meade me his weyfe,

And whea was mair happy thro’ aw his lang leyfe?

It’s e’en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,

The he offen said— nae place was leyke his awn heame!

 

I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle

Where Willy was deykin, the time to beguile,

He wad fling me a daisy to put i’ my breast,

And I hammer’d my noddle to mek out a jest.

But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell

There was nin o’ the leave that was leyke my awn sel;

And he spak what he thout, for I’d hardly a plack

When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.

 

When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame,

And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;

Of aw hours it telt eight was dearest to me,

But now when it streykes there’s a tear i’ my ee.

O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be

That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me!

For that spot on earth that’s aye dearest to me,

Is the turf that has cover’d my Willy frae me!


Susanna Blamire

Memorabilia - cartazes da Baselworld para 2017 e 2019


O canto do cisne da Baselworld. Cartazes da 100ª edição, 2017; e da derradeira, em 2019 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

O Anuário Relógios & Canetas na Golegã


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Meditações - since for you I stopped the clock, It never goes again

A Shropshire Lad 53: The lad came to the door at night


The lad came to the door at night,

    When lovers crown their vows,

And whistled soft and out of sight

    In shadow of the boughs.

 

‘I shall not vex you with my face

    Henceforth, my love, for aye;

So take me in your arms a space

    Before the east is grey.

 

‘When I from hence away am past

    I shall not find a bride,

And you shall be the first and last

    I ever lay beside.’

 

She heard and went and knew not why;

    Her heart to his she laid;

Light was the air beneath the sky

    But dark under the shade.

 

‘Oh do you breathe, lad, that your breast

    Seems not to rise and fall,

And here upon my bosom prest

    There beats no heart at all?’

 

‘Oh loud, my girl, it once would knock,

    You should have felt it then;

But since for you I stopped the clock

    It never goes again.’

 

‘Oh lad, what is it, lad, that drips

    Wet from your neck on mine?

What is it falling on my lips,

    My lad, that tastes of brine?’

 

‘Oh like enough ’tis blood, my dear,

    For when the knife has slit

The throat across from ear to ear

    ’Twill bleed because of it.’


A. E. Housman

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Meditações - a time clock punched every morning

The Windy City [sections 1 and 6]


5


The lean hands of wagon men

put out pointing fingers here,

picked this crossway, put it on a map,

set up their sawbucks, fixed their shotguns,

found a hitching place for the pony express,

made a hitching place for the iron horse,

the one-eyed horse with the fire-spit head,

found a homelike spot and said, “Make a home,”

saw this corner with a mesh of rails, shuttling

       people, shunting cars, shaping the junk of

       the earth to a new city.

 

The hands of men took hold and tugged

And the breaths of men went into the junk

And the junk stood up into skyscrapers and asked:

Who am I? Am I a city? And if I am what is my name?

And once while the time whistles blew and blew again

The men answered: Long ago we gave you a name,

Long ago we laughed and said: You? Your name is Chicago.

 

Early the red men gave a name to the river,

       the place of the skunk,

       the river of the wild onion smell,

       Shee-caw-go.

 

Out of the payday songs of steam shovels,

Out of the wages of structural iron rivets,

The living lighted skyscrapers tell it now as a name,

Tell it across miles of sea blue water, gray blue land:

I am Chicago, I am a name given out by the breaths of working men,

       laughing men, a child, a belonging.

 

So between the Great Lakes,

The Grand De Tour, and the Grand Prairie,

The living lighted skyscrapers stand,

Spotting the blue dusk with checkers of yellow,

       streamers of smoke and silver,

       parallelograms of night-gray watchmen,

Singing a soft moaning song: I am a child, a belonging.

 

 

6

 

The wheelbarrows grin, the shovels and the mortar

       hoist an exploit.

The stone shanks of the Monadnock, the Transportation,

       the People’s Gas Building, stand up and scrape

       at the sky.

The wheelbarrows sing, the bevels and the blueprints

       whisper.

The library building named after Crerar, naked

       as a stock farm silo, light as a single eagle

       feather, stripped like an airplane propeller,

       takes a path up.

Two cool new rivets says, “Maybe it is morning.”

       “God knows.”

 

Put the city up; tear the city down;

       put it up again; let us find a city.

Let us remember the little violet-eyed

       man who gave all, praying, “Dig and

       dream, dream and hammer, till your

       city comes.”

 

Every day the people sleep and the city dies;

       every day the people shake loose, awake and

       build the city again.

 

The city is a tool chest opened every day,

       a time clock punched every morning,

       a shop door, bunkers and overalls

       counting every day.

 

The city is a balloon and a bubble plaything

       shot to the sky every evening, whistled in

       a ragtime jig down the sunset.

 

The city is made, forgotten, and made again,

       trucks hauling it away haul it back

       steered by drivers whistling ragtime

       against the sunsets.

 

Every day the people get up and carry the city,

       carry the bunkers and balloons of the city,

       lift it and put it down.

 

               “I will die as many times

               as you make me over again,

               says the city to the people,

I am the woman, the home, the family,

I get breakfast and pay the rent;

I telephone the doctor, the milkman, the undertaker;

       I fix the streets

       for your first and your last ride—

Come clean with me, come clean or dirty,

I am stone and steel of your sleeping numbers;

       I remember all you forget.

       I will die as many times

       as you make me over again.”

 

Under the foundations,

Over the roofs,

The bevels and the blueprints talk it over.

The wind of the lake shore waits and wanders.

The heave of the shore wind hunches the sand piles.

The winkers of the morning stars count out cities

And forget the numbers.


Carl Sandburg

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Meditações - the splintered hand of a clock

Cane


When the mule balked, he hit him

sometimes with the flat of a hand

upside the head; more often

the stick he carried did its angry trick.

The mule’s job was to power the press,

iron on iron that wrung the sugar

out of cane, circling under the coarse

beam attached to his shoulders and neck.

That mule of my childhood

was black, remained blackly obedient

as round and round he made himself

the splintered hand of a clock, the groan

and squeak of machinery chewing

the reedy stalks to pulp, each second

delivering another sweet thin drop

into the black pot at the center.

 

He hit him with a rag, old headrag,

but the animal winced only with the thrash

of a cane stalk itself—he squinted

under the rule of that bamboo.

The sun was another caning

on his black-hot flesh. He was slow

as the blackstrap syrup the boiled sugar made,

so true to the circle he dragged

we hardly saw him. We loved the rustling

house of green cane, blind in that field

of tropical grasses whose white plumes

announced the long season’s wait.

We yearned for the six-foot stem, the eventual

six pieces the machete sliced

at the joints, then the woody exterior

peeled back lengthwise with a blade.

It was a black hand we waited for, his job

to lay bare the grainy fiber we chewed.

That juice on our tongues

was his sweetness at work.

Chester was his name, he kept the mule.


Cleopatra Mathis, “Cane” from White Sea, 2005

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Meditações - The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence

The Indoors is Endless


It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven

hoists his death-mask and sails off.

 

The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills.

The wild geese are flying northwards.

 

Here is the north, here is Stockholm

swimming palaces and hovels.

 

The logs in the royal fireplace

collapse from Attention to At Ease.

 

Peace prevails, vaccine and potatoes,

but the city wells breathe heavily.

 

Privy barrels in sedan chairs like paschas

are carried by night over the North Bridge.

 

The cobblestones make them stagger

mamselles loafers gentlemen.

 

Implacably still, the sign-board

with the smoking blackamoor.

 

So many islands, so much rowing

with invisible oars against the current!

 

The channels open up, April May

and sweet honey dribbling June.

 

The heat reaches islands far out.

The village doors are open, except one.

 

The snake-clock’s pointer licks the silence.

The rock slopes glow with geology’s patience.

 

It happened like this, or almost.

It is an obscure family tale

 

about Erik, done down by a curse

disabled by a bullet through the soul.

 

He went to town, met an enemy

and sailed home sick and grey.

 

Keeps to his bed all that summer.

The tools on the wall are in mourning.

 

He lies awake, hears the woolly flutter

of night moths, his moonlight comrades.

 

His strength ebbs out, he pushes in vain

against the iron-bound tomorrow.

 

And the God of the depths cries out of the depths

‘Deliver me! Deliver yourself!’

 

All the surface action turns inwards.

He’s taken apart, put together.

 

The wind rises and the wild rose bushes

catch on the fleeing light.

 

The future opens, he looks into

the self-rotating kaleidoscope

 

sees indistinct fluttering faces

family faces not yet born.

 

By mistake his gaze strikes me

as I walk around here in Washington

 

among grandiose houses where only  

every second column bears weight.

 

White buildings in crematorium style

where the dream of the poor turns to ash.

 

The gentle downward slope gets steeper

and imperceptibly becomes an abyss.

Tomas Transtromer, “The Indoors is Endless” from New and Collected Poems

Iconografia do tempo

Kemi, Finlândia (contribuição de Isabel Campos)

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Meditações - Chronometers tick and cannon boom

Brief reflection on accuracy


Fish

    always accurately know where to move and when,

    and likewise

    birds have an accurate built-in time sense

    and orientation.

 

Humanity, however,

    lacking such instincts resorts to scientific

    research. Its nature is illustrated by the following

    occurrence.

 

A certain soldier

    had to fire a cannon at six o’clock sharp every evening.

    Being a soldier he did so. When his accuracy was

    investigated he explained:

 

I go by

    the absolutely accurate chronometer in the window

    of the clockmaker down in the city. Every day at seventeen

    forty-five I set my watch by it and

    climb the hill where my cannon stands ready.

    At seventeen fifty-nine precisely I step up to the cannon

    and at eighteen hours sharp I fire.

 

And it was clear

    that this method of firing was absolutely accurate.

    All that was left was to check that chronometer. So

    the clockmaker down in the city was questioned about

    his instrument’s accuracy.

 

Oh, said the clockmaker,

    this is one of the most accurate instruments ever. Just imagine,

    for many years now a cannon has been fired at six o’clock sharp.

    And every day I look at this chronometer

    and always it shows exactly six.

 

Chronometers tick and cannon boom.


Miroslav Holub, "Brief reflection on accuracy” from Poems Before & After

Memorabilia - Porto Graham's de 1988, relógio Tissot Porto, 2001


Garrafa de porto Graham's de 1988, oferecida aquando do lançamento do relógios Tissot Porto, em Julho de 2001 



10 relógios de pulso...

in Venham dizer.me como vivem, de Agatha Chtistie (contribuição de Rita Maltez)

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Meditações - where people were days becoming months and years

Empire

 

He wore a little spiraled hat and wrote a song

 

that everyone sang. He lived on the mountainside

 

above a lake with a mythical beast he’d subdued.

A train circled the village each hour, over and over,

as he leaned down over the clock of his world

where people were days becoming months and years.

In a park, from the hides of ten cows, hed constructed

a giant ball that everyone touched until it became

a torn rag. He had no family, and because he worried

so much about them: What if, what if, what if, like another

beast pawing away, he’d invented a vitamin for everyone

old that allowed you to continue slowly to grow

until you forgot everything you once knew.

 

Mark Irwin

sexta-feira, 23 de agosto de 2024

Há 200 anos - travesti cheio de jóias roubadas

L IS B O A , 22 dc Agosto.

Continuação dos extractos. das Gasetas Inglesas.

« F o i conduzido hum indivíduo desconhecido da Cata­lunha para a Cadêa de Perpinhão. File vinha trajado de huma grande quantidade de vestidos, e chamava-se natu­ral da Suissa, ainda que parecia ser hum Frances. Elle trazia huma variedade de joias de grande valor. E ntre outras cousas huma caixa forte cheia de cigarros; ella era de ouro , muito bem trabalhada, com dois pequenos re­tratos feitos por Bouin. H um destes retratos, era o de hum homem decorado de Imma ordem II espanhola; e o outro eia o de huma mulher com os cabellos penteados á moda d ’Uespanha. E ntre as peças curiosas que elle tra ­zia havia: lambem hum grande rosário de cristal polido artificialmente e enfiado em hum cordão d ’ouro com os mais ornamentos deste metal ; elle se achava prezo a hu­ma lamina quadrada , na qual estava gravada huma AveM aria, e com huma grande e formosa cruz apensa, da mesma descripção. — Julga-se que isto foi furtado em França a alguma família opulenta. Hum alfinete de ou- io , ornado com as letras R . Y. tem no reverso estas pa­lavras „no lo pierdas. Acha-se também n’hum saquinho de co u ro , hum relogio de F eroz, que tem estas palavras „ Luis Guerrero.» (Jornal de Perpinhão.)

Gazeta de Lisboa, n.º 198, de 23/08/1824 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Coisas do Ephemera - calendários, Lotaria Nacional - homenagem ao cinema português

Coordenamos desde a sua criação, em Janeiro de 2020, o Núcleo do Tempo do Arquivo Ephemera. Nele, além de muito outro materual relacionado com o tempo cronológico, há centenas de calendários, de parede ou de bolso. Quando eles dizem respeito a matérias de outros núcleos, como a Gastronomia, são encaminhados para lá. No caso desta colecção, passará para o Núcleo de Cinema do maior arquivo privado de Portugal.

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