The Maker - Aug 20 2025

 

The Maker

Aug 20 2025



When no one makes things anymore.

When the knowledge has been lost.

When machines run the world

or soon enough will;

black boxes

where stuff goes in and stuff comes out

and who knows what goes on

in between.

This is magic, not craftsmanship.

But you work with your hands

know how things are done.

While I can only watch,

admire your artistry

mastery

feel for the craft;

the small things

that could be seen 

as acts of love.

I know that envy’s unbecoming.

That what I need 

is to put in the work,

take as much care,

honour the heritage.

To be, like you, an apprentice

to the secrets of the guild

and the ethic of good work.

Your shop has the cozy clutter

it takes years to accumulate.

It’s like a plush old chair

that looks worse for wear

and a little baroque,

but sink into it once

and you never want to get up.

There’s sawdust on the floor,

the earthy smell 

of freshly sanded wood.

I watch you at work.

The muscle memory;

practiced hands 

moving deftly

eyes locked in.

I see your tools

neatly hung on handsome hooks.

Their carbon steel gleams,

wooden handles 

are burnished with sweat.

They could just as well be violins and cellos,

handed down for centuries.

and handled with care.

But you were too immersed

in your own small world

to see me there

standing at the open door;

the observer

who wants to be more,

and the maker

being fully himself.

I was listening to an interview with Rick Steves, the famous travel writer and PBS personality. He said his father sold pianos, and recalled a formative family trip to Europe to see them being made. I immediately thought of a moribund industry: handcrafted pianos in an age when you can’t give used ones away, and a time when electronic keyboards seem more practical. Dying arts. Their secrets not passed on. An individual’s unique touch and idiosyncrasies sacrificed for flawless uniformity. I’ve always been envious of makers, people who work with their hands. So these thoughts seemed doubly oppressive. 

Steve’s brief anecdote triggered a related thought. I read a lot these days about AI, and how among its dangers is that all the deep intermediate knowledge is lost:  AI may go quickly and cheaply from input to output, but in one more generation how the machine got there might be lost. We may not even know enough to tell if the result is right or wrong! Like calculators replacing times tables and slide rules   … only much worse.

So that’s the alchemy behind this poem. Sometimes all it takes is an overheard sentence to set me off. I suppose my own version of making things. But it’s still not the same: too easy; too intellectual; too much air in it. Because writing a poem is not like the weight and substance of an object in your hands.