The Backbone Croatian-English translation by Tina Anterić

that offers a reflection on the question of courage in today’s world through reduced narration and condensed metaphorical expression.

translated by Tina Anterić

41 In China. The connoisseurs say that the real backbones can nowadays only be found in China, in the winter, under the thick layer of ice. After the secret baptisms in the night, on the River Yun. The backbones smell of the budding Israeli figs there. And they warm up the hearts, the entire drained earth. As if they are not the backbones, but the burning torches in the night. Of the silent vertebrae, slightly curved. Of the slim, holy structure, shiny white for the grown-ups and for the children. They don’t crack, not even when the hot black wind blows into them.

And still, it’s been noted that even such backbones sometimes melt.

Here, our backbones have the intoxicating aroma of construction sites, of iron welding and of bricks. In the summer, as they go along, some of them shed fine red cinnamon-like dust off their vertebrae.

In the Vatican, the backbone is a stick for the guests in the showcase. In Moscow, it’s a sport’s cello. In a desert, a swallowed umbrella. In me as well. Sometimes its big handle in my mouth annoys me before I fall asleep. But all the backbones, both here and there, are always just thick boney canes with the immortal shrimp which sees everything inside. I only know that everyone needs to carry its own backbone. Especially recently, one backbone to have at home and in town. In the marketplace, on a tram, in the town hall.

A stainless, black, boiled backbone. One that shines in the moonlight. A backbone aware of everything. Wise. Sprouted from the concrete, untouched by the snail slime. Sharp, tall. Hard, snowy, beaten by the wind. Serrated. Scowling, yet vulnerable, weepy around the feathers and the untouched skin.

Već po potrebi, rasporedivu u išibani križ po podu, u goruću zvijezdu na stropu.

Kičmu punu guste atmosfere. Punu dobrih vijesti. Punu želje, želje, želje. Do vratnog kralješka napunjenu kolektivnim pamćenjem svih voljenih ljudi.

U takvoj je kičmi zastava. Vijori. Podiže se onim poznanicima na cesti punima tjeskobnoga graha, zamotanima u požutjele zastore. Oni se smiješe, i posrću preko svake sjene. Klimavi su, u leđima imaju prazno mjesto. Ne smiju ni tući ni ljubiti. Moraju se čuvati svakog napora. Na licu im se vidi krevet. Mirišu na mokru zemlju.

U kičmi je sol i sja neonsko svjetlo. Ljudi s dobrom kičmom su čisti, prozračni, pometeni. Bole ih ruke od ljubavi. Nisu u sebi podstanari, već stanodavci. Nemaju zelena lica i voštane nokte, zube prevarene kuje. Ne gutaju metke ujutro nakon umivanja kao tablete protiv glavobolje. Nemaju lažne adrese i slomljene kišobrane, nepreboljene šamare i zalupljena vrata. Umiju razdvajati poljupce od poljubaca, vode od voda. Kartaju belu dok igraju poker i svemu se nadaju, sve vjeruju. Krvare kada ima mjesta vani, jer kad krvare jako rastu. Zubima kopaju komunikacijske kanale. Ne izrezuju si mnogo prostora iz mesa zatvorenog čovjeka. Radije čekaju. Stalno vide Božji oblik ruže. Ne boje se biti tihi u golome mraku. Mirišu na sunce.

Srca u srcu su im krvava, teško ih je razgledati do zadnje postaje. Imaju dobru kičmu, a nisu nikada bili u Kini. Nema potrebe. CROATIAN

A command-to backbone. A wind-up one, an assemble and dismantle one. A backbone like a mast, a pole. Like a Christmas tree. Like a telegraph spear.

As needed, arangeable as a flogged cross on the floor, a burning star on the ceiling.

A backbone full of thick atmosphere. Full of good news. Full of desire, desire, desire. Up to the cervical vertebrae filled with the collective memory of all the loved people.

In that kind of a backbone is a flag. Flying. It hails the familiar faces in the street, who are full of anxious beans, wrapped up in yellowed curtains. They smile, and stumble over every shadow. They are wobbly, they have an empty spot in their backs. They are not allowed to hit or to kiss. They have to keep away from any effort. On their faces a bed can be seen. They smell of wet dirt.

In the backbone, there is salt and a neon light shines. People with a good backbone are clean, ethereal, swept. Their arms hurt out of love. They are not their own tenants, but landlords. They don’t have green faces and pasty nails, nor the teeth of a tricked bitch. They don’t swallow bullets as headache pills after washing in the morning. They don’t have fake addresses and broken umbrellas, unsurpassed slaps and slammed doors. They know how to distinguish kisses from kisses, waters from waters. They play belote while playing poker and hope for everything, believe everything. They bleed when there is space out there, because when they bleed they grow a lot. They dig the communication channels with their teeth. They don’t cut out a lot of space for themselves out of the flesh of a closed-up man. They rather wait. They continually see the God’s form of a rose. They are not afraid to be quiet in the naked darkness. They smell of the sun.

The hearts within their hearts are bleeding, it’s hard to look at them until the last stop. They have a good backbone, and they have never been to China. No need. ENGLISH

Townes van Zandt

These lyrics were written by American singer-songwriter Townes van Zandt and appeared on his album Delta Momma Blues (1971). The song is a rewriting of the Spanish myth of Don Juan,

I used to wake and run with the moon I lived like a rake and a young man I covered my lovers with flowers and wounds My laughter the devil would frighten The sun she would come and beat me back down But every cruel day had its nightfall I’d welcome the stars with wine and guitars Full of fire and forgetful

My body was sharp, the dark air clean And outrage my joyful companion Whispering women how sweet they did seem Kneeling for me to command them And time was like water but I was the sea I’d have never noticed it passing Except for the turning of night into day And the turning of day into cursing