Est. June 12th 2009 / Desde 12 de Junho de 2009

A daily stopover, where Time is written. A blog of Todo o Tempo do Mundo © / All a World on Time © universe. Apeadeiro onde o Tempo se escreve, diariamente. Um blog do universo Todo o Tempo do Mundo © All a World on Time ©)

sábado, 28 de janeiro de 2023

Anuário 2023 - ensaio histórico - a introdução do relógio mecânico em Portugal













Janela para o passado - sabão de Moçambique, 1933

Relógios Vog, 1927


 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Fendi no Relógios & Canetas online


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Meditações - The wall clock's black, hitchy hands

Sitting Down to Breakfast Alone


Brachest, she called it, gentling grease

over blanching yolks with an expertise

honed from three decades of dawns

at the Longhorn Diner in Loraine,

where even the oldest in the old men's booth

swore as if it were scripture truth

they'd never had a breakfast better,

rapping a glass sharply to get her

attention when it went sorrowing

so far into some simple thing—

the jangly door or a crusted pan,

the wall clock's black, hitchy hands—

that she would startle, blink, then grin

as if discovering them all again.

Who remembers now when one died

the space that he had occupied

went unfilled for a day, then two, three,

until she unceremoniously

plunked plates down in the wrong places

and stared their wronged faces

back to banter she could hardly follow.

Unmarried, childless, homely, "slow,"

she knew coffee cut with chamomile

kept the grocer Paul's ulcer cool,

yarrow in gravy eased the islands

of lesions in Larry Borwick's hands,

and when some nightlong nameless urgency

sent him seeking human company

Brother Tom needed hash browns with cheese.

She knew to nod at the litany of cities

the big-rig long-haulers bragged her past,

to laugh when the hunters asked

if she'd pray for them or for the quail

they went laughing off to kill,

and then—envisioning one

rising so fast it seemed the sun

tugged at it—to do exactly that.

Who remembers where they all sat:

crook-backed builders, drought-faced farmers,

VF'ers muttering through their wars,

night-shift roughnecks so caked in black

it seemed they made their way back

every morning from the dead.

Who remembers one word they said?

The Longhorn Diner's long torn down,

the gin and feedlots gone, the town

itself now nothing but a name

at which some bored boy has taken aim,

every letter light-pierced and partial.

Sister, Aunt Sissy, Bera Thrailkill,

I picture you one dime-bright dawn

grown even brighter now for being gone

bustling amid the formica and chrome

of that small house we both called home

during the spring that was your last.

All stories stop: once more you're lost

in something I can merely see:

steam spiriting out of black  coffee,

the scorched pores of toast, a bowl

of apple butter like edible soil,

bald cloth, knifelight, the lip of a glass,

my plate's gleaming, teeming emptiness.


Christian Wiman

sexta-feira, 27 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - Ovomaltine, 1934

Aníbal Tavares, Joalheiro, Lisboa, 1920


(arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Emile Chouriet no Relógios & Canetas online


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Meditações - that clock that forbade you to move

The Idea of Revelation


It wasn't holy so let us not praise gods.

Let us not look to them for bread,

nor the cup that changed water to wine.

 

Let us look to the bend of the road

that reaches. A silver blur across

the skyline, woman standing on the farm.

 

In her grasp, the shine that is seed,

that is beginning. She will work

the earth, bounty in the vault

 

of cosmos above her, heat

lightning that lassoes in its manic

current. Man never existed

 

but to invite danger. Loveless one.

There was once an army of men,

saluting from bayonet to bomb.

 

They were expert at sabotage, hand combat.

You stop the clock in your paltry chest.

The one that says choose, choose.

 

Wind that desired backward. Ring

the alarm. When you wake, no more

pain. A mirror like a window looking out.

 

What can your past now say to you

that has never been said before? What

of that clock that forbade you to move

 

forward. What of the clock that asked

for nothing but passage, the minutes

careening into you like a fitful arrow.

 

What of the clock that summoned nothing,

not even mercy. Once you tired of wanting,

a face to break, you started the clock again.


Tina Chang

quinta-feira, 26 de janeiro de 2023

Janela para o passado - Há 90 anos, Canção de Lisboa, 1933


 O Século Ilustrado, 1933

Relógios Patek Philippe, 1913


(arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Edox no Relógios & Canetas online


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Os votos de Bom Ano do Coelho da IDMA

Meditações - The steeple’s clock

Custodians


Retired from other trades, they wore

Work clothes again to mop the johns

And feed the furnace loads of coal.

Their roughened faces matched the bronze

 

Of the school bell the nun would swing

To start the day. They limped but smiled,

Explored the secret, oldest nooks:

The steeple’s clock, dark attics piled

 

With inkwell desks, the caves beneath

The stage on Bingo night. The pastor

Bowed to the powers in their hands:

Fuses and fire alarms, the plaster

 

Smoothing a flaking wall, the keys

To countless locks. They fixed the lights

In the crawl space above the nave

And tolled the bells for funeral rites.

 

Maintain what dead men made. Time blurs

Their scripted names and well-waxed floors,

Those keepers winking through the years

And whistling down the corridors.


David Livewell

quarta-feira, 25 de janeiro de 2023

Anuário 2023 - a astronomia e o tempo, relação milenar



Janela para o passado - SONAE, 1964

Pêndulas antigas, 1912


 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Eberhard no Relógios & Canetas online


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Suíça com exportações relojoeiras ao nível pré-pandémico


A Suíça exportou em 2022 relógios num valor total de 24,8 mil milhões de francos (mais 11,4 por cento do que no ano anterior). Isto apesar de dois dos seus três principais mercados terem quebrado no ano passado.

A China, segundo mercado, importou menos 13,6 por cento; Hong Kong, terceiro mercado, importou menos 10,5 por cento. Os Estados Unidos, principal destino dos relógios suíços em 2022, importou mais 26,3 por cento.

Portugal terminou o ano como 28º mercado, com um aumento de 14,6 por cento.

Em quantidade, a indústria relojoeira suíça estabilizou, depois de anos de diminuição - 15,8 milhões de relógios (mais 0,3 por cento).

Meditações - ampulheta interna

A one ended boomerang

For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

 — Leonardo da Vinci

An hourglass constricted, the whore inside of me who is watching the clock, monitoring the time, this wasted time to get off, get going, lunar cycle gauge of tide and meridian. How I can hear the sand slip downward in my body clock? I need to be here, could be there, and not long ago the only place you wanted me to be was by your side ... maybe?

I am a pencil that cannot sharpen,

  ink that slides off paper,

  outside of our time, I am lost,

 a one ended boomerang.

Samuel Wagan Watson

terça-feira, 24 de janeiro de 2023

Anuário 2023 - especial atenção ao mundo das canetas




Janela para o passado - correias e pneus Pirelli, 1964

Carrilhão Westminster, 1912


 (arquivo Fernando Correia de Oliveira)

Os relógios Cuervo y Sobrinos no Relógios & Canetas online


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Meditações - um gnómon de ausência...

Eclogue


I wonder if anyone ever thought

to tell time with them     know where their shadow

tipped on 3 o'clock    which floor   which parking spot

from a window desk    or if they ever

stood completely over their own shade's dot

that moment they had no metered footprint;

a peek-a-boo we now find ticketed

as a before and an after    an either

side of a space the zero pulls into,

its long reserve wheel of nothing there.

Yet here a gnomon of absence bears its shadow

placement on some dial of brevity and cold

about life       about the footprint we may leave

empty of light    empty of even point to it.

 

Here it's flat and densely packed with people

unlike the empty open of the plain;

here our expanse    the grown over dumpsite

of the meadowlands wetlands or the shore

is corps of engineered   the bulldozer-beetle's

ball of dung shines in it       and somewhere the body

hidden in our shit to fake us innocent...

one of our jokes sometimes      things rise and float.

 

                                                               We in the morning

catch, from the train, in the green garbage runoff,

sight of white herons and the cormorants.

When they’re there in the evening, we safely

assume the world hasn’t gone anywhere;

a take of bearings       the same the next morning

when we’d see the lit towers on the island

we were headed for      we see now the hour.

 

From the Jersey side we take a bearing, as

on mountains from the vantage of the plain,

on the towers from the vantage of the

dirt-stiffened, unyielding, tarmac of marsh

grass     gray like steel grayed a vegetable steel

from blur and the exhausts of the turnpike.

 

Position with regard to surrounding objects

here is unlike in the mountains which give

a bearing even from deep within them, let you

see them from inside their formation.

 

Climbing to the high plateau of the street

from the subway, we check the peaks downtown

or midtown    skyscrapers for direction.

Walk a few doors up the block    they parallax

eclipsed by the postcard we no more see.


Ed Roberson

segunda-feira, 23 de janeiro de 2023