Poem: "The Automaton Convocation"

[ysabetwordsmith]

This poem came out of the February 21, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl.  It was inspired by prompts from aldersprig, fabricdragon, siliconshaman, and e_scapism101.  It has been sponsored by janetmiles.  You can explore the Steamsmith series further via the Serial Poetry page.

This started with a request for more about the tommies, and references to the performance and the lyrics of "Herr Drosselmeyer's Doll."  I pulled in some previous research about the kinds of alchemy that various nations have favored, then looked up references for the titles, first and last names, and cities.  The result is a gathering of steamsmiths from across Europe, meeting in London to show off their best constructs.

The Automaton Convocation

The convocation is crowded with displays
of automatons from around Europe:

Here is Monsieur Bellamy from Nantes
with a matched set of gardeners,
each one holding a different tool.
The local steamsmiths throng to the booth,
hoping he will notice them, for the French
are famous for their refinement of British ideas.

Here is Maestro Caravello from Venice
with his crystalline opera singers
and there is Kyrios Adamou from Rhodes
with his music box dancers.
They too are popular,
representatives of classic civilization.

Here is Herr Drosselmeyer from Berlin
with his steamwork ballerina.
There is Herr Dr. Uhrmacher
with his clockwork orangutans
and his assistant Herr Fluckiger
with his patchwork seamstress,
both from Freiburg.
People watch them warily,
the German Confederation having a reputation
for political enlightenment and mad scientists.

The British booths are all together
showing off a variety automatons:
porters, butlers, waitresses, sentries,
and others less specialized.
When the visiting steamsmiths manage
to slip away from their booths,
this is where they come.

In the show,
the shiny gardeners perform handsomely
but one of the opera singers shatters herself.
The music box dancers are elegant,
but the life-size ballerina is a staggering disaster.
The clockwork orangutans, intended to replace zoo animals,
descend on the seamstress and rip her to ribbons.

Maryam's tommies are not so spectacular,
built of plain bronze and tin and steel,
their metal faces serious and their hands exact.
They go about their tasks with quiet efficiency,
never making the audience laugh at strange antics.
They do not drop anything,
nor do they break down.

Maryam accepts her trophy with a solemn nod
and walks past her grumbling peers,
grateful for the objective scoring system.

The gentlemen may know
what a servant is supposed to do,
but Maryam also knows how.