What is he? A man, of course. Yes, but what does he do?
He lives and is a man.
Oh quite! but he must work. He must have a job of some sort.
Why?
Because obviously he’s not one of the leisured classes.
I don’t know.
He has lots of leisure. And he makes quite beautiful chairs.
There you are then! He’s a cabinet maker.
No no! Anyhow a
carpenter and joiner.
Not at all. But you
said so.
What did I say? That he made chairs and was a joiner and
carpenter.
I said he made chairs, but I did not say he ‘was a
carpenter.
All right then, he’s just an amateur.
Perhaps! Would you say a thrush was a professional flutist
or just an amateur?
I’d say it was just a bird. And I say he is just a man.
All right! You always did quibble.
from the selected poems of D.H.Lawrence.
A good friend told me about this poem. “Would you say a
thrush was just a professional flutist or just an amateur?”
What a piece of genius is that line, for the thrush must
sing his beautiful song, yet he cannot read a note of music!
Sometimes I feel I write in the magazine under false pretences
for I am not a woodworker, certainly not a cabinetmaker, or a joiner, I simply
make chairs. I cannot contemplate not doing so, I am a man who eats and sleeps
and dreams, and makes chairs - all just to stay alive. I do it now because I
must. I cannot contemplate the silence of not singing my chairs.
Reading this poem has, perhaps, brought me to an
understanding of what I am. It has helped to make sense of my feelings about
woodwork. I do not think that woodwork, as a hobby, is well portrayed, or
promoted, by the woodworking press. Woodwork in the garden shed is fast
becoming impractical due the massive over sell of machines. There is little
left to do which requires the hands to shape. Sharpening has been reduced to an
exact science. I could not do my work if it wasn’t for the uncertain element of
success. My hands shaping an arm can alter my intentions in a second. Most of
the improvements that have occurred have been instigated by such mistakes, when
my hands did not do what my head wanted. My bum notes have sometimes created
new chords which have proved to be a better song. And because I don’t have the
ability to read the music, I can’t always repeat the same mistake exactly.
Whilst reading through D. H. Lawrence’s poems I came across another gem:
Things Men Have Made.
Things men have made with wakened hands, and put soft life
into, are awake through years with transferred touch, and go on glowing for
long years.
And for this reason, some old things are lovely.
Warm still with the life of forgotten men who made them.
Is it possible to relate this sentiment to a soulless piece
of machined cabinet work? I don’t think so. And another, a sledgehammer of a
poem:
Let Us Be Men.
For God’s sake, let us be men not monkeys minding machines
or sitting with our tails curled while the machine amuses us, the radio or film
or gramophone, Monkeys with a bland grin on our faces.
Of course this poem appeals to me.
The John Brown Column
– Good Woodworking - April 2001
