Notes on verse by Gonçalvo Astribeira 
by Wellington Amancio da Silva


[Study of the transient and without-delay objects, of the verbal and winged existences, that only certain angels, in their certain moons, days and shifts, know how to babble in the ears of the initiated elders, and freed from all nihilism of the inhabited world]


And he makes strange poetry — they said.
How depth is deep?
“I do poetry, no: I almost-do-it. Do I make it weird?
I wish I didn’t have the karma of encumbering… ”.
Zé writes verse very                   strongly,
And to bite. And there is still an invented biography,
from the unfinished work. And never published
will be. Γλώσσαλαλώ! Ahh, the eyes of dreams…
Just be dreaming!             Write,                 write!
And he acknowledges in secret and in silence
(the verse has a voice in minor tone
opaque reverberation, squinting at Time,
whispers of secretless to anyone, et cetera…).


Beautiful, what hasn’t been seen before.
The vocal cords are tight, hanging
in vain low and convex from the roof-of-the-mouth
— strange firmament — I hush, you hush, we hush!
And the nonsenses that echoes from the bottom of this Wet-Bucket
there is no one who knows what else to say, to hush.
What dizzy bird hangs around a rock?
He said, “All these drafts and notes
will be gathered willingly, and without discretion.
I will gladly put it together, in two pages.
(………………………………. There will be no key!)


The low-bird singing is long/ and
to greening for the meek mastic
The chirping of sparrows and
the winged acute-rattlering of the
plurivoices’ twigs goes, hollow to hollow
The singing Oitibó, the Anu-Preto
Solemn’ long-tail,
The Caatingueiro-canary raising
ground dust, with wings,
morning cunning and clear
Potter in the wind throws and throws
the clay to the joão-de-barro. Ana-Rain,
and he makes Portuguese a mess!
Bird-hue, morning wings, right here
Fazenda Canção Taúba — where?
Nec Unu‘s place
(There is no a key!)


And the symbolism of things, whose broken seal
opens to us like a gluttony — where?
And you have to think and read and write
and throw away it to the world — where? Calm! not enough
say by saying what little impresses you? Not!
Vipers dwell in very common holes

The face rediscovered in the mirror of many syllables.
The translucent and insistent and cloak tunic,
who vests the frame; the seamless robe of the loquacious verb
What do I do with all these words? Continues! Write them!
The adjective annoy such an eyebrow.

The memory lightening few, and is the one that hurts. There,
so what is forgetfulness becomes a dream, cos’ loves
who writes, and insists, I think. No more what
say by say [even if there is no key! …]


Gave fire, more incandescent fire
than dung-fire, the fire. The land did blacken /
nothing left of the fire! And, this day there is no one
answer me — what runs, when space runs
of a pause? When, with hands tied, breaks
seeing (Nothing. Nothing one can contain your tone)
sing, intoned, to their own cause, and then, fading?
Without memory there isn’t sacred… forget it…!
Already birthed-luck comes down to where gravity dawns
Gravity teases fools, liarly…! lightness
But, we turn in humpback-soul, if anchor ourselves in the stern.
(The dense stars attract each other, and only we hurt)
Only we hurt, in after all!
Ants, onwards! — Naji-narroji-najna-aménus! — let’s scream!
……………………………………………………There is no key!


The unnamed things
hug each other ferociously (for what?)
at the of hermeneutic door,
And within this bulging-soul
I hear voices, hoarse voices
Same as the voice of Miles Davis —
“Where is the key? Where is the key?”
……………………………There is no key!


At least there is a clef from an old requiem —
At least there is a clef
At least there is a beam
………………………………………There is no key!



Noisy Dream
Clammy yawn
White Calm from
Endless plain
The press! The impression!
Fictional Panacea —
O, since 1997 blurring papers
With absurd ink!
Restless dawn and the
Get up to take notes
From your own-funnel
Glossing a few words
Palindromes from Beyond
Annotate a sentence
Note first and last name
From someone Beyond, the cycle —
Cândito Valtercar
Gonçalvo Astribeira
Gazram Uramitranda
Alfredo Kinésio
And rises the versifier,
And still perplexed to the Source
The front plexus blurring
Movable types, golden
Gutenbergians —
It was a chance to
Publish your books! When?


José Amâncio (pseudonym of Wellington Amancio da Silva) is northeastern from Karamaron, born in 1979, in Brazil. He graduated in Pedagogy and Philosophy. Master in Human Ecology. He starts a literary project in 1997: writes some verses, short stories and other texts. His interest is precisely writing as a craft that makes itself and the surrounding world, real or imagined. From the author was published, “Ontology and Language” (analytical philosophy); “Thinking Indigence with Michel Foucault” (philosophy); “The Quasi-Haikai” (verses); “Yellow Epiphany” (verses); “Ulysses and the Helmsman” (verses); “Dysthymics and Extrusives” (verses); “Dialogues with Sebastos” (theater); “The Caatingueiros” (novel); “The Reneval” (verses), as well as dozens of scientific articles in specialized magazines. Founder of Parresia Editions. Editor of Pondera Magazine of Literature and Art. Current member of the Editorial Team of Utsanga Magazine – Rivista di critica and linguaggi di ricerca (Italy).

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