ysabetwordsmith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ysabetwordsmith) wrote2012-09-16 08:06 pm
ysabetwordsmith) wrote2012-09-16 08:06 pm
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Poem: "The Wingdresser's Kitchen"
This is the freebie for the September Crowdfunding Creative Jam. It was inspired by a prompt from jjhunter about how, if everyone had wings, there would be professional care for that. This reminded me of how political ethnic hair is, and the severe discrimination against African hair braiding services that still happens in some places. So I figured, if everyone turned up with feathers, the same kind of fracas would ensue ...
The Wingdresser's Kitchen
Sheba tucked her wings close
to duck down the dark alley.
It was this way to the wingdresser's,
slip in the back to the kitchen
and make sure nobody saw you.
That's on account of there were laws,
mostly aimed at keeping white folks happy,
so you couldn't legally work as a wingdresser, unless
you paid thousands of dollars for a cosmetology license,
which didn't anybody have in this 'hood
and the schooling was all aimed at white girls
with their pale pigeon-wings and dove-tails.
Cosmetology had got a lot stranger since the Fledging,
but it hadn't got any cheaper or the people any nicer.
So if you had the black-and-green wings of a Jardine's parrot
with orange sunspots blazing on the shoulders
because your ancestors were Ashanti who came from Ghana,
then you couldn't use cosmetics meant for pigeons,
and that sent you right to the wingdresser's back door.
Sheba closed the screen door carefully behind her
so it wouldn't bang and maybe attract attention.
The kitchen was crowded and full of conversation,
mostly other Ashanti descendants like Sheba herself
but there by the fridge was an Ethiopian woman
with the gray-green wings of a red-bellied parrot,
undersides showing peach when she fluttered.
The wingdresser was gentle and thorough, her brown hands
cleaning all the places that Sheba couldn't reach,
fluffing the plumage with a wide-toothed preening comb.
Then she polished the orange feathers with palm oil
and the green feathers with hemp oil -- which was illegal,
but then so was the whole business.
They talked through all of this, because that was
how people stayed connected in the 'hood,
so Sheba heard all about Queenie's new baby
and Mara's boyfriend proposing at the club.
She told about her new job waiting tables.
Then the talk rolled around to cosmetology
and how the NAACP had filed a lawsuit
for fraud, because the schools claimed to teach
how to take care of wings but only covered one kind,
and nobody should have to pay for lessons
that didn't have a thing to do with their job.
The kitchen was a bit too warm, but Sheba didn't care.
Her wings were clean and glossy again,
the primary quills dotted with gold paint.
There was chili cooking in a crockpot on the counter
and someone had brought cornbread to go with it
and someone else unwrapped a coconut cream pie.
The women crowded around the kitchen table to eat,
their colorful wings touching like a choir of angels,
and Sheba thought that maybe, even if
the NAACP won their case, it was better this way
and who needs a fancy wingdressing shop uptown anyhow.
jjhunter about how, if everyone had wings, there would be professional care for that. This reminded me of how political ethnic hair is, and the severe discrimination against African hair braiding services that still happens in some places. So I figured, if everyone turned up with feathers, the same kind of fracas would ensue ...The Wingdresser's Kitchen
Sheba tucked her wings close
to duck down the dark alley.
It was this way to the wingdresser's,
slip in the back to the kitchen
and make sure nobody saw you.
That's on account of there were laws,
mostly aimed at keeping white folks happy,
so you couldn't legally work as a wingdresser, unless
you paid thousands of dollars for a cosmetology license,
which didn't anybody have in this 'hood
and the schooling was all aimed at white girls
with their pale pigeon-wings and dove-tails.
Cosmetology had got a lot stranger since the Fledging,
but it hadn't got any cheaper or the people any nicer.
So if you had the black-and-green wings of a Jardine's parrot
with orange sunspots blazing on the shoulders
because your ancestors were Ashanti who came from Ghana,
then you couldn't use cosmetics meant for pigeons,
and that sent you right to the wingdresser's back door.
Sheba closed the screen door carefully behind her
so it wouldn't bang and maybe attract attention.
The kitchen was crowded and full of conversation,
mostly other Ashanti descendants like Sheba herself
but there by the fridge was an Ethiopian woman
with the gray-green wings of a red-bellied parrot,
undersides showing peach when she fluttered.
The wingdresser was gentle and thorough, her brown hands
cleaning all the places that Sheba couldn't reach,
fluffing the plumage with a wide-toothed preening comb.
Then she polished the orange feathers with palm oil
and the green feathers with hemp oil -- which was illegal,
but then so was the whole business.
They talked through all of this, because that was
how people stayed connected in the 'hood,
so Sheba heard all about Queenie's new baby
and Mara's boyfriend proposing at the club.
She told about her new job waiting tables.
Then the talk rolled around to cosmetology
and how the NAACP had filed a lawsuit
for fraud, because the schools claimed to teach
how to take care of wings but only covered one kind,
and nobody should have to pay for lessons
that didn't have a thing to do with their job.
The kitchen was a bit too warm, but Sheba didn't care.
Her wings were clean and glossy again,
the primary quills dotted with gold paint.
There was chili cooking in a crockpot on the counter
and someone had brought cornbread to go with it
and someone else unwrapped a coconut cream pie.
The women crowded around the kitchen table to eat,
their colorful wings touching like a choir of angels,
and Sheba thought that maybe, even if
the NAACP won their case, it was better this way
and who needs a fancy wingdressing shop uptown anyhow.
no subject
Your poems are always good, but this one's a cut above the usual. Very, very nicely done.
Thank you!
*bask, preen* I very frequently aim for that target in my urban fantasy and low fantasy. Grit and grace. It's like heating sand until it glows.
>> I would love love love to see an illustration for this <<
I would love that too. We need more art that shows women of color, there's too little of it. In fantasy it's even worse, almost all white people. Meh. When I wrote this, I was thinking about the super-saturated colors of African-American art and the stylized or soft-edged lines.
>>Your poems are always good, but this one's a cut above the usual. Very, very nicely done.<<
Aw, shucks.
[complete stranger comment]
Re: [complete stranger comment]
Squee! That would be wonderful.
>> How many women?<<
There's the protagonist Sheba, the wingdresser herself, an Ethiopian woman, Queenie, and Mara. That's five who need to be there. The kitchen is crowded but small; you could fit in one or two more women, but that's about it.
Species references for the two types of parrot are here:
Jardine's Parrot
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jardine%27s_Parrot
http://www.poicephalus.nl/images/soorten.htm/jardine/fantiensis-www.poicephalus.nl.jpg
Red-bellied Parrot
http://www.africanqueenaviaries.com/africanparrotsoverview.htm
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f9/Poicephalus_rufiventris_(Juvenile_male)_-stretching-8a.jpg
Re: [complete stranger comment]
Re: [complete stranger comment]
Squee! I'd love to see the sketch. This has been a very popular poem and I think folks would enjoy watching the art evolve.
>>(and fitting five in was hard, with that assuming magically-supported rather than naturally flight-capable wingspans!),<<
You know, I'm not sure if the humans can fly? If they can, they must be doing it with grace; you made the right guess regarding wingspan. They're big, but not big enough for aerodynamic flight.
>> probably going to be loosely watercoloured <<
That sounds lovely.
>> - I take it some gender-confused plumage is fine? <<
Yes, that's fine. Those species of parrot have low sexual dimorphism anyhow, if the articles and images I researched were accurate.
Re: [complete stranger comment]
From this poem alone it doesn't seem like they can, though with the addition of/skills gained in magic, it could probably be learnt...lift is a lot easier than power, actually, it's mostly the mammal bones that're the issue. I'll...just warn you now that starting me rambling on humanoid flight mechanics is not a good idea if you ever want me to stop... *hem*
Righto.
Re: [complete stranger comment]
Whatever works. The sketch is beautiful! Thank you so much for sharing. By the way, I've reposted "The Wingdresser's Kitchen" over on
>> From this poem alone it doesn't seem like they can, <<
I suspect that's so ...
>> though with the addition of/skills gained in magic, it could probably be learnt...lift is a lot easier than power, actually, it's mostly the mammal bones that're the issue. <<
... but it may be possible for at least some people to learn. Based on what I know of this series now, it would be a faith-powered or spiritual effect more than physical. The wings do seem to have birdlike bones, and the feathers evidently have a hollow rachis like birds rather than solid as angels often do. I'm basing that on the fact that somebody broke a blood feather in another poem.
>> I'll...just warn you now that starting me rambling on humanoid flight mechanics is not a good idea if you ever want me to stop... *hem* <<
Nooooo problem. I love biology and xenobiology! The other day I was looking up hydrostatic skeletons for a poem about Tim the Tentacle Monster from my Schrodinger's Heroes series.
There are many different ways to address issues of flight. I've explored a fair number of them.
Re: [complete stranger comment]
Good to hear it, though I'm afraid I'll steer clear, being generally allergic to poetry.
Birdie wing bones don't mean a lot without the rest of the birdie flight adaptations, but they'll certainly be able to glide as they are, if they can get over the Matrix-like self-belief/first jump issue. [headtilt] Aren't angels...y'know, spirits? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your canon, merely being recommended the poem as an 'even-you will like this' sort of way...what reason would there be for a solid rachis? [curious] Ouch! I hope they were able to save it.
Ha! Aye, well, I've been known to ramble somewhat. What kinds of fliers do you have?
no subject
no subject
Well...