Peter Ualrig Kennedy finds there is so much to reward the reader in Naomi Jaffaâs riveting second collection of conversational and hard-hitting poems.
Driver
Naomi Jaffa
The Garlic Press
ISBN 978-0-9935794-6-2
31pp ÂŁ6
It will escape no-oneâs attention that Naomi Jaffa is a name to conjure with; Director of the Poetry Trust until 2015, and author of acclaimed collection The Last Hour of Sleep (2003). The cover of Driver, this second collection, may be an undistinguished grey â but what con-tent! These poems (which are extraordinary in the sense of stunning, not bizarre) form a conversation between the poet and both herself and the reader.
âDealâ presents a clever conundrum of opposing feelings that we all may have experienced at some time or another, but will not perhaps have formulated so pithily as Jaffa does here.
I resolve to be happy
or sad in this house, this new life,
according to whether my crumpled list
of âhouse moveâ instructions
lands in the unfamiliar
wastepaper basket in the corner âŠ
The two poems that follow, âDaughter, Sister, Auntâ and âLetâs Go Look at the Dead Pigâ are threnodies for childlessness. Counterbalanced by âTroubleâ which indeed is trouble, cleverly describing in its clipped manner a small problem (a small discontented nephew) in the extended family. Then a sudden shock, a real shock, in âGetting Togetherâ; from where has this poem jumped up? Is it a real event, a nightmare, or an allegory? Or perhaps wishful thinking ⊠surely not:
This time, itâs the man in the boot of the car
routine. Theyâve picked him up from
nowhere, roped his wrists behind his back,
sealed his mouth âŠ
Itâs a poem of callousness, of unknown men who, in the final lines, experience a terrifying relaxation as if theyâve just been out on a country walk or a rabbit hunt. Are they sadists, terrorists or hired killers?
Itâs a Friday evening, the grass is luscious
underfoot, the sun is still warm
across the shoulders, and they know
no better way to finish the week.
Why does the next short poem âPullâ end definitively with: âto cradle or wankâ? Unusual. Look at the title and its double meaning, and understand the tension between recreational sex and procreative sex: âBaby or balls, / balls or baby ââ Iâm not sure, but thatâs how I see it.
âMerry Hellâ starts off âI have an embryo, in vitro, to keep / alive in a horse box I donât know how / to drive and in which I attempt / steep steps of an auditorium.â An uncomfortable dream, it seems, and a mysterious one. A pair of traffic cops come to the rescue:
They suggest I wake up, get a grip
and fetch myself a glass of water.
Donât I know that carrying on
like this plays merry hell
with oneâs imagination, they say.
Well, yes. Itâs an interesting diversion. The impressive realities of âOffice Fireâ follow, dealing with the imperative of necessary decisions in a dangerous situation. There is further convincing realism in âMindfulness Practiceâ (dedicated to Tania Kindersley, who grew up with horses). Now I have never groomed nor owned a horse myself, and so this closely observed poem, in its enticing detail, shows me that I have missed something in life:
⊠we finish with her head, eyes half-closed,
ears drooped, great long face lowered to the rub
of the bulb of my hand against the bone
of her cheek, right where it itches most.
Taking Up Our Postsâ is a dour poem of the closeness of death, the good luck and the bad, with a tinge of black humour â or deadpan reportage:
No one knows who will go first, or how:
the man jumping from the 40th floor â
shot by mistake from a window on the 20th
by a wife missing her husband;
âNext Doorâ encapsulates Naomi Jaffaâs perspective; it is a poem so honest that one sees where compassion stops and irritation takes over:
⊠I go round, say Iâm sorry
and how is she and is there anything
I can do wondering when in godâs good name
sheâs going to die â
âViolinistâ is an affecting little vignette in which Naomi and her mother are brought together, courtesy of YouTube, with her late father â who of course is Max â âcome to join us, hovering / beside the screen, for a second / life perfectly triangular again.â
A few pages on is the title poem âDriverâ, conflicted and dense with suppressed fury:
the void unfilled by food, or persevering with a lover
who spat I should have burned in the ovens
along with the rest of my kind âŠ
To persevere in the face of such scorn seems almost pathological. But then philosophy gets a huge look-in with âSignâ (The owl of Minerva flies only at dusk). Just when the poet has finally decided: âAt the start of the week I make it clear Iâm leaving,â ⊠an owl, âa big white wedge / of a birdâ brings an understanding of what is the all too human tragedy of waking up to action in the nick of too late:
This isnât history, but must be what Hegel meant.
After twelve and a half years and in the week
I make my intentions plain, only now
does he see and touch me, talk about how much
he understands, canât bear the loss of.
I like the way the whole poem, freighted with meaning, ends with a simple preposition, âofâ; the poet is talking directly to us (or to herself) without pretension. She expresses a certain envy in âMarriageâ, the poem which follows; she is in flight (literally â âWhen I boarded at Avignon with my lunatic / quantities of luggage âŠâ) and encounters a short plump American: âand Iâm certain she is happy with her husband âŠâ
âTime of My Lifeâ and âGood at Sexâ are both so confessional that it hurts; but there is a final accommodation in the last poem of all, âPoem for Wednesdayâ. Jaffa, seemingly a bit deflated by the âhumpback of the weekâ, rouses herself:
and on Wednesday, I think
come on, letâs go for it,
letâs be lavish and splash out.
I have not discussed poetic form at all in this review. The poems are free verse at its finest. The interest here, the fascination, is in the stories each one tells. Naomi Jaffa has produced a marvellous collection of sinewy poems that need to be read and re-read. And then read again. Highly recommended.
by Michael Bartholomew-Biggs • books, poetry reviews, year 2017 • Tags: books, Peter Ualrig Kennedy, poetry • 0 Comments
Peter Ualrig Kennedy finds there is so much to reward the reader in Naomi Jaffaâs riveting second collection of conversational and hard-hitting poems.
It will escape no-oneâs attention that Naomi Jaffa is a name to conjure with; Director of the Poetry Trust until 2015, and author of acclaimed collection The Last Hour of Sleep (2003). The cover of Driver, this second collection, may be an undistinguished grey â but what con-tent! These poems (which are extraordinary in the sense of stunning, not bizarre) form a conversation between the poet and both herself and the reader.
âDealâ presents a clever conundrum of opposing feelings that we all may have experienced at some time or another, but will not perhaps have formulated so pithily as Jaffa does here.
The two poems that follow, âDaughter, Sister, Auntâ and âLetâs Go Look at the Dead Pigâ are threnodies for childlessness. Counterbalanced by âTroubleâ which indeed is trouble, cleverly describing in its clipped manner a small problem (a small discontented nephew) in the extended family. Then a sudden shock, a real shock, in âGetting Togetherâ; from where has this poem jumped up? Is it a real event, a nightmare, or an allegory? Or perhaps wishful thinking ⊠surely not:
Itâs a poem of callousness, of unknown men who, in the final lines, experience a terrifying relaxation as if theyâve just been out on a country walk or a rabbit hunt. Are they sadists, terrorists or hired killers?
Why does the next short poem âPullâ end definitively with: âto cradle or wankâ? Unusual. Look at the title and its double meaning, and understand the tension between recreational sex and procreative sex: âBaby or balls, / balls or baby ââ Iâm not sure, but thatâs how I see it.
âMerry Hellâ starts off âI have an embryo, in vitro, to keep / alive in a horse box I donât know how / to drive and in which I attempt / steep steps of an auditorium.â An uncomfortable dream, it seems, and a mysterious one. A pair of traffic cops come to the rescue:
Well, yes. Itâs an interesting diversion. The impressive realities of âOffice Fireâ follow, dealing with the imperative of necessary decisions in a dangerous situation. There is further convincing realism in âMindfulness Practiceâ (dedicated to Tania Kindersley, who grew up with horses). Now I have never groomed nor owned a horse myself, and so this closely observed poem, in its enticing detail, shows me that I have missed something in life:
Taking Up Our Postsâ is a dour poem of the closeness of death, the good luck and the bad, with a tinge of black humour â or deadpan reportage:
âNext Doorâ encapsulates Naomi Jaffaâs perspective; it is a poem so honest that one sees where compassion stops and irritation takes over:
âViolinistâ is an affecting little vignette in which Naomi and her mother are brought together, courtesy of YouTube, with her late father â who of course is Max â âcome to join us, hovering / beside the screen, for a second / life perfectly triangular again.â
A few pages on is the title poem âDriverâ, conflicted and dense with suppressed fury:
To persevere in the face of such scorn seems almost pathological. But then philosophy gets a huge look-in with âSignâ (The owl of Minerva flies only at dusk). Just when the poet has finally decided: âAt the start of the week I make it clear Iâm leaving,â ⊠an owl, âa big white wedge / of a birdâ brings an understanding of what is the all too human tragedy of waking up to action in the nick of too late:
I like the way the whole poem, freighted with meaning, ends with a simple preposition, âofâ; the poet is talking directly to us (or to herself) without pretension. She expresses a certain envy in âMarriageâ, the poem which follows; she is in flight (literally â âWhen I boarded at Avignon with my lunatic / quantities of luggage âŠâ) and encounters a short plump American: âand Iâm certain she is happy with her husband âŠâ
âTime of My Lifeâ and âGood at Sexâ are both so confessional that it hurts; but there is a final accommodation in the last poem of all, âPoem for Wednesdayâ. Jaffa, seemingly a bit deflated by the âhumpback of the weekâ, rouses herself:
I have not discussed poetic form at all in this review. The poems are free verse at its finest. The interest here, the fascination, is in the stories each one tells. Naomi Jaffa has produced a marvellous collection of sinewy poems that need to be read and re-read. And then read again. Highly recommended.