Poetry in its purest form - filled with numerous metaphors, anzhambhani, perfectly mastered, emerges from the pen of Ishitu Gonsalvish (1920 - 2001), so that the verse is poured and at the same time it retains the necessary pauses for breath and reflection. Another representative of Portuguese poetry, which reinforces the mastery and depth of this nation's writing with warm blood and sensuality of the experience of the world, love and poetry.


Gonsalvish was quickly spotted by critics. In 1952 he was featured in the anthology "Twelve Portuguese Poets" published in Rio de Janeiro. But he is not limited to his own poetry and devotes much of his time to translations of foreign authors, as well as to social and cultural activities in prestigious organizations. He is a director of Serpente magazine, a member of the Arvore Group, which publishes two magazines.


The poems below are from the book The Price of Words, translated by Rumyana Genova.

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With words…


In words I get up every day!
I wash my face with words every morning
and I go out.
In words - unheard - I shout,
the siege of laughter to tear.


Ah! We are all full of words.
We have an archive of words, we know them by heart
in four or five languages.
At night, we take them as pills,
to put to rest our fatigue.


The words are tangled in the language.
The purest are changing - violet,
meadows of silence. What are they for -
prisoners, drowned in saliva?


The best words we have;
they give juice to love, to freedom…
I swallow words and wonder if I can
to release them, to open them
breasts where they are closed.


A river of words passes through us:
with words I go to bed and with words I get up,
but I have no words to speak…




I was looking for you in the deepest loneliness, in hers
orb one figure stood out. Whether this one
a huge, nervous skeleton of leafless beech
is just an image of expectation? You were coming
from afar, no roof, no walls, cold
lips among mighty chestnuts. Tried
to change the seasons, the selected places,
to be a flame for the wick of an idea,
into the sea to open the abyss, where they will sink
the grand ships of the past.




in the heart of the night
I bend over you and question
the shade of your skin.


I ask with a look, then
lips move,
they touch you one whole cycle
is repeating.


What gypsum stiffens our blood
and attack us? What kind of ship do I expect
at the end of my gestures?


The important thing is to know
where it hurts.


I think we are made to love


I think we are made to love
calmly. I think we're big enough,
that we have suffered what we need,
to eat peacefully every day
to watch the sun rise
and the sunrise shall not cause fear.
I think we screamed enough
all those centuries - the rough years,
who have passed. We sailed in a circle,
we were dying and reviving again…
We spent fleeting tangents
and they failed our joy. So much time
and a new death is upon us. An experienced hand
presses our arteries.
Long kisses are slipping away from us.
Aren't they for us? Isn't it time yet
to smile?




I was looking for your face, I was looking for it so much that I found it
your body.


I was looking for your face in daylight, in the hesitant
dawn and in the ghostly twilight.


Surprised by your surprise, I remember
trembling, revealed my sense of reciprocity.


December is a rainy month. After the brilliance of
the holidays
the fog dragged me.


How to support? Tonight of glass
the light that surrounds me is a desert.


Later - yes


Will write later
simple, clear verses
and I'll talk about the birds
without sophism.


Will write later
without hesitant feelings
about childhood sadness,
for stones and roses.


Will write later
for the most ordinary ring,
happy afternoon,
filled with love.


But leave me now
to cry over those tears.

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