Posts Tagged ‘shibari’

“The Shibari Series”

September 11, 2019

Kohut-Bartels-BOP-2

I’m taking a chance  in posting these pieces.  They will not be liked, understood or embraced by many readers.  But I think this is part of our creativity: daring to write or even develop some rather outrageous pieces that go against the grain of what we are known for as writers, as poets.

Breaking open myths and creating new ones…...

These segments of “The Shibari Series” speak to transformation, and a rather weird tale at that.  I started them in 2007. They are rather a personal story, and though they came to me in a rush, it took me years to understand their significance. Perhaps we have to grow into what springs out of our unconscious, even distasteful and confusing things, perhaps this is part of the path of creativity.  We have to take a chance.

Lady Nyo

1.

Japanese hemp coiled about the torso, creating diamonds where there was once only skin, looping back upon itself, over and over. Breasts now defined by a rope cut-out bra, while waist, love handles, now enclosed in more diamonds, thighs entwined. Added turns and thin jute split my cleft with a hard caress, the large knot on the bottom shifting upward. It would tease in mid air.

Dance comes from the earth, through the feet, up and out, giving shape to song. This time I would dance in flight, the pull of ropes challenging gravity, compounding my efforts.

Movements liquid and extreme startled me, the kikkou and hemp anchored me in space, my first taste of freedom in the ropes. Suddenly I felt the sting of a whip and I jerked out of time to the beat. I fell deeper into the dance, determined to continue. Again the whip’s sting and I faced a split reality: pain or pleasure. I went inward, deep into the music and rhythm, where movement was birthed and pain banished.

I flew, hollow bird bones filled with joy. Cradled within the ropes I spiraled up from heavy earth.

2.

(Spider Web)

Restrained by the hemp to a beam above and to posts at my sides, I was secure in a blue rope karada. It bunched my skin where it bound, creating its own mountains and valleys, distorting my natural figure.

Pain was the door, the portal, the whip applied until I cried “Mercy!” I had slipped into an altered state, far from where pain ate at my flesh. Just back from subspace, I had dangled in the infinite where time stopped and a crude salvation was born.

Looking up at the ropes I was now in a spider web, frozen at all points, the fly caught, splayed in a hemp web 360.

I glanced behind me. The spider was a big one, gently stroking my welts, drinking a glass of water, or perhaps it was green goo. He smiled, now aware I was conscious and with a questioning expression, picked up the single tail and shook it at me.

“More?”

I smiled slyly. Such gluttons we were, the spider and the fly.

 3.

Again, I am restrained on all sides, a fly trapped in the stickiness of a dismal fate. I can hear the spider behind me, warming up, flicking the whip, marking his targets on my body, my wings too shredded for further flight.

What am I searching for? I thought salvation, but there was little of that. Perhaps transcendence? At this point, I would settle for any transformation out of here.

The whip caught me by surprise. I jerked forward, lifted six inches in flight with a high scream, the sound pairing pain and confused need. Blackness poured in like oil and I went limp.

I awoke, the burn deep in my feathers. Looking to both sides, my eyes now two sharpened orbs with 6x vision. Hooked beak, my feet wicked talons. A furious shake and I was free of the web, free of the ropes. Extending strong wings, I flew to the top of the beam. With a loud hawk hunting call I surveyed the ground, hungry, need fulfilled – almost.

The spider saw me, only a moment of fear crossed its black eyes before bowing his head to fate.

4.

I flew high but it was spring, and the weak thermals did not support my flight. I was hungry, without food, except for the spider. A freshly fledged hawk must learn how to fend for herself. Beginnings are dangerous.

Cupping my wings, I hovered over a stream, watching the ice break apart far below. Three days of freedom had left me weak, confused and with a troubling need. Breaking my bindings I was now lost, abandoned to nature, cold and alone.

“Hep-Hep-Hep”. I heard the ‘call-in’ of the falconer below me, as I floated over the landscape. Seeing the whirling lure with a rabbit head was too much. Starved, I spiraled downwards, landing with a thump.

“Good Girl” I heard as the man beckoned me to his glove covered with fresh meat. As I mantled over and stepped up, he slipped a jess upon my left leg, another with silver bells on the right.

“Good Girl” I heard again as he tied me tightly to a perch.

“Good Girl” as the hood slipped over my head.

At least no one whips a hawk. And there is always the sky.

5.

For the next week I remained in the mews. During that time I was prodded, examined and weighed.  The Falconer was experienced and knew to avoid my feet when I was restrained.  I would slice him, even with bindings securing my wings and the hood blinding me.I was to eat only from his glove. He cooed, watching me as I greedily swallowed down the sparse meal, his dominance enforced.

When I was a woman I yearned for the ropes.  I wanted them tightly around my body, ‘tender is the bight’ so to speak, yet now I pecked, pulled at my leather restraints.  One day the Falconer found me hanging upsides down, like a bat, hooded and unhappy, but I gleefully bit him as he righted me on my perch.

Soon after, he put me to the glove and launched me into the air, I screaming in delight.

If I thought I had freedom I was fooled. The Falconer had tethered me with a long hemp rope. He jerked hard and I thumped back to earth.

“Good Girl” I heard through my outrage and humiliation.

“Good Girl” I heard as he pinned me to the ground.

6.

I remained in the mews for my fall back to earth broke my wing. The cage was large, one I shared with a goshawk only allowed to a Master Falconer.

One day Master claimed me from my perch, set me on his glove and launched me. This time I had no tether and made my escape. Screaming into the wind, I climbed high until he and the hated glove were invisible. I flew with the currents, my eyes bright with freedom.

Suddenly, I was changing, feathers dropping from my breast and wings. I spiraled, awkward in my descent, landing by the same brook once choked with winter’s ice. Instead of talons I had a woman’s legs and slowly my feathers molted leaving me naked, shivering, my limbs white as the remaining snow peppering the early crocuses. My cry now a sob instead of a hawk’s high shriek.

Instinct made me start at the sound of the hunting call and there was the Falconer, a blanket in his hands. He threw both of us down and took his rights, my cooing not of doves. Later, collared in steel with long jesses I walked behind his horse.

7.

The spring was gentle, tender rains like warm tears coursing down on sullen earth. I looked skyward and saw the palest of blue, everything fresh and transparent.   Sometimes, when I knew I was not watched, I spread my arms and called out to the wind. My voice was too thin, my bones too solid for flight, chained also with gravity.

One morning I brought meat to the goshawk in the mews. He sidled away refusing my meal. Admiring his powerful wings, thinking of the past, I called to him in chirps as I did when a hawk and he swiveled his head to me. Looking deep into his eye I could see my former freedoms as I passed over mountains and rivers, hunting and soaring, all given up for earthbound comfort.

Freedom and hunger traded for slavery and food.

I knew then what would happen. Captured, I had the power to free. Slipping on my Master’s glove, the goshawk stepped up and I worked the belled jesses from both legs.

A launch and he soared over me, screaming his delight. I raised my arms, my spirit in flight, my chains now looser for his freedom.

8.

The Falconer, now my Master, was not a cruel man. I found this out when he realized his goshawk gone. He did not question me as I served him his dinner, nor did he ask anything of me when we slept that night.

Only at morning did I find him watching me with a quizzical look on his face.

“Do you understand the point of keeping a goshawk, girl?”

I shook my head. Rarely did I use my voice in answering him. I did not trust it after so many changes

“Well, let’s say that in freeing him, you have upset the balance of nature.”

I looked at him curiously. What balance of nature?

With a slight smile he asked: “What do you intend to cook for dinner tonight?”

Of course! The goshawk hunted and we ate what he killed.

“Know you goshawks are called ‘the pot bird’? And since he ate from the glove as you did he will probably starve. That is what I meant by upsetting the balance of nature, girl.”

I looked for the goshawk all day until my neck was stiff. My dreams that night were full of broken feathers.

9.

(Introduction to the Tengu)

It was weeks of anxiously watching the skies for the goshawk before I gave up. I never saw him again. I learned to trap rabbits and put offal on the roof of the mews in case he flew over.

My Master sometimes watched me from the window, never saying a word about his goshawk. I now set the traps and killed the rabbits and in effect I was the goshawk.

Trapping rabbits is tricky, but soon the spring would bring fiddlehead ferns and tender green dandelions to vary our diet.

One day I passed the mews and there sat a huge bird. I quickly entered, my basket of offal in my arms. He turned his head towards me, and I screamed, the first real sound I made since my capture

It was a beautiful iridescent bird, having a man’s head with a long, red nose. He shook his feathers and crept towards the offal and wrinkled his nose.

“Girl, even a Tengu eats better fare. Get me some meat and sake.”

I backed out of the mews, and ran to the house. Transformations be damned, this was a strange one!

10.

I ran into the house, panting with shock and exertion. A Tengu! Sitting in the mews.

No sake, just my Master’s single malt I dare not touch, but found sherry and some cold pieces of rabbit. I wondered if a Tengu, bird/man such as he was, would rather have raw fare. A bird of prey would disdain the cooked rabbit, but he did have a man’s face. The leftover rabbit would have to suffice.

My Master was gone, expected at dusk. I walked slowly back to the mews, hoping my mind was playing tricks. There he was, as big as, well, there was the Tengu scowling at my approach.

Human hands appeared from under his hummingbird colored feathers and he greedily grasped the sherry bottle and drank a long gulp.

“Not sake, girl, but good for a thirsty bird.”   He grinned and his nose got even redder.

“You are thinking, ‘why is he here now’? Ah girl, deep cosmic issues. You and me in the mix. One last chance for me to throw off some bad karma.”

He finished the sherry, belched and leered at me.

I heard my Master return on his horse.

11.

I ran out of the mews with my offal basket over my arm. I must have looked funny to him because he kicked his horse to hurry to me. Looking down he peered into my eyes and an expression of concern crossed his face

“What is wrong, girl? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

My eyes wandered back to the mews and his followed mine. Dismounting, he let the horse wander into the barn and walked quickly into the mews. I followed him with quick steps.

He pulled on the falconer’s glove and approached the Tengu, now looking very much like a large, normal bird. He looked for bands, jesses and bells but found none of course.

“Strange, girl, he would find his way here. Well, perhaps he has promise of hunting if he is young enough to train. I don’t know though, he looks rather old to me.”

Telling me to draw water and feed him some raw meat, he headed to the house.

The Tengu watched my Master retreat with hawk eyes.

He had a nasty cackle. “Your Master has no idea how old. Feed me well girl, I’ve got magic to conjure. Scram!”

12.

I came back with the Tengu’s dinner that I filched from my own. He wasn’t in a pleasant mood when I entered the mews, but certainly ate what I brought him with relish.

“Good”. He belched, wiped his mouth with the cloth that covered the basket of food.

Leering at me, he winked one eye.

“Sir,” I asked, “What am I to call you?” He had started to pick lice from his feathers, crush them and drop them on the ground.

“Sir will do nicely for now.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Ah, the eternal question! Well, I came from Mount Kurama, all Tengu do, but I prefer to haunt Toyko. Like to be a pigeon in a park and look up the skirts of the women there. Nothing more, just like to see muffs and thighs, favorite parts.”

I was a bit taken back. I read something of Tengu. “Don’t you hang with Buddhist priests?”

He barked a short laugh. “Picked on the wrong one. Powerful Yamabushi. Bad karma. That’s why I’m here. You need me.”

He wasn’t the pleasantest of Tengu, but he certainly was the first. Perhaps need went both ways.

13.

The spring warmed up and Tengu and I took walks through the countryside. He adopted the guise of a large, golden eagle in case my Master saw us walking in the fields above the house.

The soft air nuzzled my arms and legs and the Tengu shook out his wings, opening and closing his large beak, drinking in the sweet air.

I told him of my past, the strange transformations from woman to bug to hawk and back to woman. His eyes got big with surprise.

“You have one fucked up karma, girl. And I thought mine was shitty.”

My Master had placed me in light chains, and I caught the Tengu contemplating them.

“Ah”, he said, reading my mind, “I’m wondering if they will interfere with your wings.” I was afraid to ask anything, but my heart started to race.

Later that morning, he twisted my chains into a tighter bondage. He now used my soft body for ikebana, fertile soil for him to place the stems of spring flowers and twigs in my hollows, fill my lap and hair with long grasses, giving new meaning to gardening and beauty and gentleness.

The End, so far…..

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copywrited, 2007-2019

The “Shibari Series” was previously published in “Seasoning of Lust”, Amazon.com 2017

“Do We Censor Ourselves in What We Write?”

January 13, 2018

Supermoon in dec.

 

Very recently I received an email asking to be ‘friends’ on facebook.  The person was a woman I knew slightly during Y2K.  Our relationship wasn’t close and she wasn’t a literary friend. I have no problem adding friends to fb, but when I told her I was a writer, she asked me if I ‘wrote dark things.’  That question startled me.  Apparently in the ‘60s she had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t tolerate ‘dark things’.

I thought about this.  Hell, yes, I write about ‘dark things’.  “Olsen’s Pond” is an example of dark things.  But further, I am not responsible for the mental stability, comfort, etc. of readers.  I don’t think this woman would want to be ‘friends’ with me on fb according to her standards. And frankly?  I don’t think I would be interested in her.

I have come across this sort of censorship before.  When I published my first book (“A Seasoning of Lust”) there were a few rather comical stories with sex mentioned.  Not full bore sex but a dusting of this issue.  My mother’s opinion was this: “ I  was a pornographer, would always be such, and I would live in the gutter.”  Thanks, mom.  But this is the opinion of a woman who writes little and when she attempts poetry, it’s sentimental mush.

I remember a woman in ERWA (Erotica Readers and Writers Assoc.) who styled everything she wrote after a silly, demented ‘dom’.  He was a hack at this site and frankly, people started to notice his projection of horrendous sadism in his work posted there.  She didn’t notice there was a rumble around his work and just continued to style her work after his.  She was rather stupid.  But it did raise the issue of censorship.  His work was so vile, so misogynistic it outdid deSade.  He projected a sense of power but I did meet him.  He was a small, whiny man, with nothing that would appeal.  He hid behind his words and they were pretty awful.

In that case, he should have censored himself.  But he was insane.

 

Censorship is something I have struggled with.  Do we do this to ‘please’ potential readers?  Are we afraid our ‘dark things’ in verse and story will isolate ourselves?  Last year I posted “Olsen’s Pond” and some people wrote that they ‘refuses to read this poem because it would depress them’.  Well, they must have read some of it to have that opinion.

I have written a lot of Japanese stories and poems.  Some in the tanka form and most not.  Some readers have no information on shibari, something I studied for a year or so because it interested me.  It was such a strange-seeming, alien practice but I kept reading about it to at least have some clarity before I ditched the whole subject.  People again were horrified that a woman (or man) would allow oneself to be tied with rope.  Some called it barbaric, some called it ‘oppressive’.  I have read one translation of the word ‘shibari’ as ‘tying up the heart’.  This was enough for me to write some comical pieces (Metamorphosis series) and some not so comical works.

So, Hell Yes I write about dark things.  War is Hell, especially on children and perhaps my “Children of Aleppo” is a dark thing but it points to hope. The light doesn’t show unless the darkness appears.  And I hope that I continue to not be swayed by those who are afraid of life.  Those who are need not read my blog.

Below is a Haibun.  “The Punishment”.

While binding me for his pleasure, I uttered displeasing words. With a level glance he considered options and too soon decided my fate. Grabbing my hair, he pulled me to my feet, opened the shoji, and forced me out in an early spring’s snow.  A lavender sky tinted the snow purple, gray in the shadows.  Ordering me to kneel, I obeyed, shivering in the cold morn.  Drawing an early cherry blossom from his sleeve (a gift that was to be mine), he threw it down.  It was his pleasure for me to feel the sharpness of the morning until the soft snow covered the blossom. I, who a month ago would not have cared what I said, now trembled with remorse, feeling more than cold air.  My nakedness revealed my shame.  A crow in the cherry tree laughed scornfully.

When love grows deep and the heart overflows, one submits and becomes a slave.

The snow soon covered the blossom at my knees.  Fearing I would die, he picked me up, carried me to the brazier and tucked me deep amongst his robes, singing softly of the foolish maiden who would die for the last word.

A swirl of blossoms

Caught in the water’s current

Begins the season.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“Metamorphosis IV

April 6, 2017

 Image result for fruit bats

 “Mine, mine, mine”.

For those not following (and you are legion…) this is part of a series of basically 200 word episodes.  There are 8 in all.  I’ve never published these, nor have I posted them on this blog.  As far as I can remember and that is getting harder. The earlier episodes are on this blog if you scroll backwards.

Dversepoets is having an open link night (OLN) where you can post a piece of your choice.  I am posting this because it is funny and we need comedy desperately in the world.  Y’all too glum out there.

Lady Nyo

Laura twisted in the wind. Well, rotated in the air conditioning. Bart had a new kick, called ‘Shibari’. An ancient Japanese practice of wrapping things. Precisely. With hidden knots. She should have thought twice when he insisted she strip.

Arms wrapped behind her back, more cloth holding her legs together, she sighed. She didn’t mind hanging upside down, was even getting used to the headaches.

Bart, however, was having a bit of his own transformation, and Laura didn’t know if she liked this one bit. He was becoming ‘weirder’, taking up hobbies. Piercing was one, this shibari another. Laura was seeing Bart in a different light, helped along with her new, nighttime vision.

*Goddamn Japanese! Why can’t they stick to wrapping small packages?*

Bart told her ‘shibari’ was the ancient art of “wrapping the heart.” She bought it, didn’t even mind the bananas, mangos and kiwi he stuck between the bindings. He was, after all, a common fruit bat.

Up on the roof, Bart had other plans. From under his wings, he drew out a new black, leather- riding crop. He slapped it on his palm, laughing with glee.

Laura was about to obey.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2017

“The Punishment”, a haibun for d’verse.

October 3, 2016

My beautiful picture

Peach blossoms in the back yard. Spring

 

While binding me for his pleasure, I uttered displeasing words. With a level glance he considered options and too soon decided my fate. Grabbing my hair, he pulled me to my feet, opened the shoji, and forced me out into an early spring’s snow. A lavender sky tinted the snow purple, gray in the shadows. Ordering me to kneel, I obeyed, shivering in the cold morn. Drawing an early cherry blossom from his sleeve (a gift that was to be mine), he threw it down. It was his pleasure for me to feel the sharpness of the morning until the soft snow covered the blossom. I, who a month ago would not have cared what I said, now trembled with remorse, feeling more than cold air. My nakedness revealed my shame. A crow in the cherry tree laughed scornfully.

When sentiment grows deep and the heart overflows, one submits out of love.

The snow soon covered the blossom at my knees. Fearing I would die, he picked me up, carried me to the brazier and tucked me deep amongst his robes, singing softly of the foolish maiden who would die for the last word.

A swirl of blossoms

Caught in the water’s current

Begins the season.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

 

An email from Jingle Nozelar Yan (JP at Olive Grove ):

“when you post on word press or blogger, you do not have to pay or ask permission in person. which is what we count for.”

Every poet and poet group I frequent would find that surprising!  There are Copyright Laws in the US,  Jingle. Even in China. But bless your little  heart.

Please  don’t read my work on her site. If you care about literature, you will go to the original source and bypass Jingle Bells.

 

Jane

“Metamorphosis VI”

May 31, 2012

 

Continuing the series…..

When Laura fell off the roof she smashed her ankle.  It took all of Bart’s Shibari bindings to stabilize her limb.  Now Laura was making Bart wait on her, wing and foot.  He wasn’t too happy with the ‘fetch’ thing but was puzzled why Laura’s wings hadn’t worked.

“Bart,” Laura whined, “The ice melted in my drink.  Make me a fresh one, darlin’.”

Bart came from the kitchen, an apron tied around his middle.  He was pissed being a house-bat but what could he do? A dominant fruit bat, this apron went against his nature.  But the dishes had to be done, guano shoveled.

Inactivity made Laura horny.  She eyed Bart and flapped her pinkish wings alluringly.  Bart’s eyes gleamed as he climbed between them.  He began to nuzzle her belly, but lost his head.  Laura  had used a new perfume, “Peaches and Cream”.

“Bart! I’m not a cantaloupe. Your teeth are sharp!” 

“Sorry, Laura.  I’m just following my nature.”

Of all kinds of bats in the world, I get a fruit bat, thought Laura.  Life is unfair.

But he did look cute in that frilled apron.  The big bow on his butt suited him.

Nature be damned.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2012

“Metamorphosis IV”

May 22, 2012

 (thanks to cheezburger.com for the photo)

These pieces are called ‘flashers’.  They are short scenes or stories of 200 words.  They aren’t easy to write, but they are instructive.  They exact a certain amount of discipline, as in learning not to love all your words.

Lady Nyo

Laura twisted in the wind. Well, rotated in the air conditioning.  Bart had a new kick, called ‘Shibari’.  An ancient Japanese practice of wrapping things.  Precisely.  With hidden knots. She should have thought twice when he insisted she strip.

Arms wrapped behind her back, more rope holding her legs together, she sighed.  She didn’t mind hanging upside down, was even getting used to the headaches.

Bart, however, was having a bit of his own transformation, and Laura didn’t know if she liked this one bit.  He was becoming ‘weirder’, taking up hobbies. Piercing was one, this shibari another.  Laura was seeing Bart in a different light, helped along with her new, nighttime vision.

*Goddamn Japanese!  Why can’t they stick to wrapping small packages?*  

Bart told her ‘shibari’ was the ancient art of “wrapping the heart.”  She bought it, didn’t even mind the bananas, mangos and kiwi he stuck between the bindings.  He was, after all, a common fruit bat.

Up on the roof, Bart had other plans. From under his wings, he drew out a new black, leather- riding crop. He slapped it on his palm, laughing with glee.

Laura was about to obey.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008, 2012

“The Punishment”, for OneShotPoetry

January 25, 2011

http://microstoryaweek.blogspot.com/.

STEVE ISAAK HAS VARIOUS WRITERS:  GARY RUSSELL, NICK NICHOLSON, STEVE AND MYSELF SUBMITTING SHORT 500 WORD STORIES…OR COLLECTIONS OF THESE.

MY “METAMORPHOSIS’  FLASHER SERIES IS BEING RUN BY STEVE ON MICROSTORYAWEEK.

THE WRITERS ARE EXCELLENT AND THE READING IS GOOD!

LADY NYO 


Four years ago I discovered shibari.  In Japan, it means the tying of something, usually packages, but an earlier meaning is “the tying of the heart’.  It has a long history in Japan and was used to secure prisoners.  In the West, it refers to the practice of rope bondage, and the word shibari has become common for this practice.

Shibari is a powerful practice.  It can be abused and misused.  In my experience I came to understand that shibari was a many-layered issue.  I have written about Shibari, in “The Shibari Series” in my first book, “A Seasoning of Lust”, and also numerous essays on my blog.  Some can be found with a Google search on Shibari.


“The Punishment” was a poem written from that time.

Different  opinions abound on rope bondage.  There is the issue of control and power, but this entry is not the place to discuss that topic.  I have had different experiences with shibari, but one thing I do believe:  the intent or the expectations of either the binder or the person bound are trumped by what I call “the power of the ropes”.  To the Japanese, in the religion of Shinto, everything has a spirit.  It is called Kami.

From a writing on Shinto religion:

“Kami  is the sacred or mystical element in almost anything. It is in everything and is found everywhere, and is what makes an object itself rather than something else. The word means that which is hidden.

Kami have a specific life-giving, harmonizing power, called musubi, and a truthful will, called makoto (also translated as sincerity).”

I don’t believe in much mystical stuff, but I do believe in kami, especially as it pertains to the practice of shibari.

I have experienced them.

Lady Nyo

THE PUNISHMENT  (Shibari Series)

While binding me for his pleasure

I uttered displeasing words,

And with a level glance

He considered his options.

Too soon he knew

What punishment to apply!

Grabbing my hair

Twisting it in his hand

He pulled me to my feet

And opening the shoji

Pulled me out into

The spring’s snowy morn.

Telling me to kneel,

This time I obeyed,

shivering in fear.

Drawing an early cherry blossom from his sleeve

(a gift that was to be mine)

He threw it in the snow.

It was his pleasure for me to feel

The sharpness of morning

Until the soft snow had covered the blossom.

I, who a month ago would have not cared

What I said,

Now trembled with humiliation

Feeling more than the cold air.

When sentiment grows deep and the heart is overflowing

One submits and becomes a slave to love.

I knelt in the snow,

my nakedness and tears

Showing my shame to the courtyard.

A crow in the cherry tree

Laughed without mercy.

Fearing I would die

The blossom now covered with snow,

He came and

Picked me up in his arms-

Carried me to the warm brazier,

Tucked me deep amongst his robes

And sang a soft song of the foolish maiden

Who would die for the last word.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2008, 2011

Some Humour for a change…

April 19, 2009

We’ve been good. We’ve been serious. (“Too Heavy! Too Serious! Lighten Up!” my friends are saying…)

So I will.  The “Metamorphosis Series” is funny, (think Gorean Fruit Bat and a  woman transforming into a bat…) but the first one in the series sets the stage for murder most foul…and the comedy doesn’t get rolling until the third.  But they are written only in flasher form (200 words) so I will post the first three  and then later continue on with the series (8 total..so far)

And Noah  said:  “Let there be Shibari amongst the fruit bats….”

(and there was with lots of complaining and way tooo many knots)

The “Metamorphosis Series” will be in the “A Seasoning of Lust” Volume II released sometime this late summer, around mid August.

Lady Nyo, with less than half a brain today….

METAMORPHOSIS  #1

Standing at the window, Laura was lost in thought. The crispness of autumn purified the air at dusk.  The moon rose and the sky was still light.  It was that peculiar time of evening when both sun and moon balanced the sky.

Swifts and swallows flitted over chimneys and rooftops, wheeling like tiny black crescents against the sky.  As the moon rose, the swifts were replaced with bats speeding like rockets in front of the window.  She could hear the sound of their twittering as they flew by, sharing the day’s gossip.

“Laura!”  Her husband’s voice, harsh.

“I’m coming” she called back.

Peering out the window her pupils opened wide. She saw strange things. Veins in the leaves, mounds of disturbed soil from moles far below. The moon so close! The night beckoned to her and she felt like flying.

She wondered about herself.  Under her gown she felt thin membranes grow beneath her arms. Transparent tissue joined with two small hooks on her elbows.  Her breasts shrunk to nothing, only large nipples remaining. Her sex seemed to shift backwards, her vulva misplaced.

“I’m coming along nicely,” she whispered.

METAMORPHOSIS II

“Laura, come to bed!  What are you doing out there?”

Laura was doing nothing.  Just drinking tea and looking out the window, humming to herself.

She had lost weight, grown taciturn, seemed sexless.  Harold, confused, was getting on her last nerve.

Laura entered the bedroom. Harold, bald and boring, glared at her.

“What is wrong with you? Didn’t you hear me?”

*Oh yes, thought Laura.  Thirty years of marriage doesn’t stop up your ears, just your mouth. And your heart.*

Laura opened the closet to hang up her robe.  Inside, on a hanger, was a giant bat, its dull black wings wrapped tightly, hanging upside down.  Laura shoved it aside, looking for a hanger for her robe.  She got into bed and turned off the light.

The police looked at the carnage on the bed.  Blood everywhere, a real massacre. Something was wrong, damned if they could figure it out.  The wife, mute, had to be in shock. Weird batty woman.

Laura, her gown bloody, drinking tea, looked out the window.  Under the tree was a big dark man, standing with his arms wrapped around his chest. He looked up and nodded.

Laura smiled and winked.

METAMORPHOSIS III

Having become a widow, Laura’s life took on different dimensions.  The house now on the market, she decided to travel.  She thought of spelunking, exploring caves, climbing mountains.

Poring over brochures, she heard a scratching sound. Unlatching the second story window, in fluttered Bart Batkowski..

“I wish you would use the door like a normal person.  You will draw attention this way.”

“Laura, do you forget what I am? Besides a co-conspirator in murder?”

Laura signed. Harold was dead, gone, Bart now sharing her bed.  But it wasn’t the bed where the action happened.  It was the damn closet and sex was gymnastic at best.  Though Laura had known a transformation, it wasn’t complete.  The angle of penetration was off. Bart would insist on hanging from his heels, and all attempts at necking gave Laura a stiff one; neck, that is.

Since Bart said his DNA required the closet hang, they compromised with a vertical 69 position.  Bart would embrace her with his wings wrapped tightly around them, and Laura would get comfortable with her pubis level at Bart’s nose.

It was a strange mating, but when Bart snored it sent Laura to heaven.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008, 2009

Ok, I was remiss….the Podcasts are poems from “A Seasoning of Lust”.

February 7, 2009

I FORGOT to mention THAT little issue.  And friends were fast to mention it to me.

This podcasting is a LOT of fun.  You get to exercise your voice, inflections, etc…..something I should have a better handle on because I was an opera student at one time…a long time ago.  But one does forget these things, and it takes others listening to bring it to mind.  There are many tools you can use to make your audio work better, more pleasing to the ear.

We have uploaded more poetry for the podcast, and again, thank you, RG for the push here.

http://lado-nyos-weblog.podomatic.com/

Lady Nyo

METAMORPHOSIS IV

Laura twisted in the wind. Well, rotated in the air conditioning.  Bart had a new kick, called ‘Shibari’.  An ancient Japanese practice of wrapping things.  Precisely.  With hidden knots. She should have thought twice when he insisted she strip.

Arms wrapped behind her back, more cloth holding her legs together, she sighed.  She didn’t mind hanging upside down, was even getting used to the headaches.

Bart, however, was having a bit of his own transformation, and Laura didn’t know if she liked this one bit.  He was becoming ‘weirder’, taking up hobbies. Piercing was one, this shibari another.  Laura was seeing Bart in a different light, helped along with her new, nighttime vision.

*Goddamn Japanese!  Why can’t they stick to wrapping small packages?*

Bart told her ‘shibari’ was the ancient art of “wrapping the heart.”  She bought it, didn’t even mind the bananas, mangos and kiwi he stuck between the bindings.  He was, after all, a common fruit bat.

Up on the roof, Bart had other plans. From under his wings, he drew out a new black, leather- riding crop. He slapped it on his palm, laughing with glee.

Laura was about to obey him.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008, 2009

from the “Shibari Series”

January 31, 2009

I don’t know.  Perhaps I am just too tired to evaluate this whole issue of the binding, etc. right now.  I do know that my thought processes have been interrupted, my attention span disrupted with the news (unexpected) last night of the status of “Seasoning”.

I’ve heard from a lot of people about the poem “Shibari”.  Some are practicing shibari experts, some are not, just curious about the subspace issue, others more interested in the power exchange.

Right now I am shifting through the emails, and later will come up with an entry, trying to cobble the different opinions and points of view on this event.

So, I will do what I usually do when I am full of doubt and confusion.  I will post a piece of work and avoid ( in this case) or probably complicate the questions.

Lady Nyo….and thanks to the usual suspects…

FROM THE SHIBARI SERIES….#1 included in “A Seasoning of Lust”.

Japanese hemp coiled about the torso, creating diamonds where there was once only skin, looping back upon itself, over and over. Breasts now defined by a rope cut-out bra, while waist, love handles, now enclosed in more diamonds, thighs entwined.  Added turns and thin jute split my cleft with a hard caress, the large knot on the bottom shifting upward. It would tease in mid air.

Dance comes from the earth, through the feet, up and out, giving shape to song. This time I would dance in flight, the pull of ropes challenging gravity, compounding my efforts.

Movements liquid and extreme startled me, the kikkou and hemp anchored me in space, my first taste of freedom in the ropes.  Suddenly I felt the sting of a whip and I jerked out of time to the beat. I fell deeper into the dance, determined to continue.  Again the whip’s sting and I faced a split reality: pain or pleasure. I went inward, deep into the music and rhythm, where movement was birthed and pain banished.

I flew, hollow bird bones filled with joy.  Cradled within the ropes I spiraled up from heavy earth.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008, 2009


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