Plumes is a one-act, folk drama written by Georgia Douglas Johnson in 1927 (first produced at Chicago's Cube Theatre in the same year). It was played at the Harlem Experimental Theatre between the years of 1928 and 1931. This play won first prize in a playwriting contest sponsored by the influential opportunity magazine.
This play was written during the Harlem Renaissance, which was a literary movement based around African-American literature and art. During this time, lynching plays were created as African-Americans expressed the devastation brought on their families because of lynching, which was a common practice in the south. Johnson was one of the most famous writers during this time and much of her work focused on lynching plays and the hardships many African-Americans faced during their life time. Plumes falls into this category and is one of the very few works of Johnson that survived after her death.
n. (plural of plume English)
Usage examples of "plumes".
She would have said it to that hated Frenchwoman herself, had not mother and mistress both forbade her leaving the room until the Plumes were gone.
A single Drapsk stood within it, yellow-streaked plumes rigidly aloft, a portable fan in one hand.
His purple plumes were fully erect, sampling the air flowing over our heads.
Her left hand began rotating the focusing rings the instant the plasma plumes died.
Elsewhere, the engine plumes, creeping up the maglines like vines up a trellis, stripped and ionized the oxygen and nitrogen, and flowers bloomed in the somber colors ghosts were said to favor.
From the plumes on their bonnets to the pointed toes of their buskins, they sparkled and shone.
Ignoring these gruesome preparations, Basket-fox headed to the far edge and stood there, apparently lost in thought, while the wind whipped his feathered cloak and the plumes of his headdress.
Eliste glimpsed silk flowers, rosettes and cockades, laces, scallop-edged ribbons, jewelled buckles and buttons, fringes and silken tassels, feathers and curly plumes in every colour.
The Echo fluffed out her deep blue plumes a little and took up the task.
She sat fluttering her lovely pink plumes and gazing around with her sweet, wild, golden eyes in such acute distress that the sight of her grieved and terrified Sara even more than the awful tickling.
The Plynck, on the other hand, drooped on her accustomed branch like the leaves on the trees, as if she hardly had strength to hold her loosened plumes together.
In the excitement of victory they had all momentarily forgotten the Plynck, though, when the fight was hottest, it had been the sight of her tragic drooping plumes among the blighted leaves that had nerved them to redoubled effort.
And among them, with her happy golden feet in the snow, and her rosy plumes fluffed out, sat the Plynck, looking as softly dazzling as a snowy sunrise.
With great presence of mind she spread out her cerulean plumes so that the Teacup settled upon them harmlessly, instead of crashing down upon the hard emerald bottom and shattering to bits.
And the last thing she saw, when she turned to throw her last kiss, was the Echo, who, overcome by emotion, had at last climbed clear out upon the rim of the pool, where she sat waving her plumes to Sara in plain sight of them all.