CRAFTSMEN
V. Sackville-West (1892 - 1962 )

I would like to dedicate this week's poem to my father and my son. Both are craftsmen in wood. My father was a fine cabinet maker and master carpenter before he retired. My son is a designer and builder of beautiful, hand crafted furniture. As Sackville-West, a poetic craftsman herself, points out in her insightful poem, they "share a knowledge" that only craftsmen can understand. Both pursued other careers first, but each eventually felt the need to work with their hands; to use tools; to create; to make beautiful, functional things. How lucky they are. While I have no comparable skills, I am lucky to have craftsmen such as them as a part of my life.

It is unfortunate, but probably understandable, that Vita (Victoria Mary) Sackville-West is best remembered today for her unconventional life style and "affairs of the heart," which in her case were with a number of well known women, including Hilda Matheson, head of the BBC Talks Department; Mary Campbell, wife of the poet Roy Campbell, whose work can be found in these pages; Violet (Keppel) Trefusis (with whom she once "eloped" to France in a "flight to freedom"), wife of Denys Trefusis, daughter of Alice Keppel (who was mistress to Edward VII); and, of course, Virginia Woolf, who used Sackville-West as the model for Orlando in her novel by that name. As a sign of the times, Ms. Sackville-West did not, of course, marry any of her lovers, but was instead, at the age of 21, married to the diplomat and critic Harold Nicolson, with whom she had two children (the art critic Benedict Nicolson and the publisher Nigel Nicolson), in spite of the fact that Harold was more attracted to men than women.

I said "unfortunate" in the above paragraph because Ms. Sackville-West was an accomplished author and poet, who deserves to be best remembered for his literary skills. She wrote dozens of volumes of poetry, 13 full length novels, three volumes of short stories, and many historical and biographical works. And to top off this highly productive literary effort, during the last two decades of her life, she was widely known and loved for the gardening column she wrote for the "Observer." These articles were eventually compiled into three immensely popular books. All were based on Vita and Harold's first country home, Long Barn, and then their garden at Sissinghurst, Kent, which is now a national attraction, having been transferred to the National Trust in 1967, five years after Vita's death.

I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I do. God willing, we will visit the poetry of Vita Sackville-West in these pages several more times in the future.

Craftsmen

All craftsmen share a knowledge. They have held
Reality down fluttering to a bench;
Cut wood to their own purposes; compelled
The growth of pattern with the patient shuttle;
Drained acres to a trench.
Control is theirs. They have ignored the subtle
Release of spirit from the jail of shape.
They have been concerned with prison, not escape;
Pinioned the fact, and let the rest go free,
And out of need made inadvertent art.
All things designed to play a faithful part
Build up their plain particular poetry.
Tools have their own integrity;
The sneath of scythe curves rightly to the hand,
The hammer knows its balance, knife its edge,
All tools inevitably planned,
Stout friends, with pledge
Of service; with their crotchets too
That masters understand,
And proper character, and separate heart,
But always to their chosen temper true.
-So language, smithied at the common fire,
Grew to its use; as sneath and shank and haft
Of well-grained wood, nice instruments of craft,
Curve to the simple mould the hands require,
Born of the needs of man.
The poet like the artisan
Works lonely with his tools; picks up each one,
Blunt mallet knowing, and the quick thin blade,
And plane that travels when the hewing's done;
Rejects, and chooses; scores a fresh faint line;
Sharpens, intent upon his chiselling;
Bends lower to examine his design,
If it be truly made,
And brings perfection to so slight a thing
But in the shadows of his working-place,
Dust-moted, dim,
Among the chips and lumber of his trade,
Lifts never his bowed head, a breathing-space
To look upon the world beyond the sill,
The world framed small, in distance, for to him
The world and all its weight are in his will.
Yet in the ecstasy of his rapt mood
There's no retreat his spirit cannot fill,
No distant leagues, no present, and no past,
No essence that his need may not distil,
All pressed into his service, but he knows
Only the immediate care, if that be good;
The little focus that his words enclose;
As the poor joiner, working at his wood,
Knew not the tree from which the planks were taken,
Knew not the glade from which the trunk was brought,
Knew not the soil in which the roots were fast,
Nor by what centuries of gales the boughs were shaken,
But holds them all beneath his hands at last.

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