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Jaffa, Naomi
Format: pamphlet
Publisher: Garlic Press (N/A)
ISBN: 9780993579462


‘Edgy’ is an adjective often used to describe poetry these days though it often doesn’t mean much. But many of the poems in Driver, though not without humour and fun, are actually on the edge, balancing in a moment of acute uncertainty or fear.

One vertiginous edge is the awful knowledge, for a woman who loves children, that she isn’t going to have any of her own. But there are worse things, aren’t there? Tell that to a person who describes her future as ‘blank, leading nowhere, without issue’ — when that’s only part of what’s going wrong.

She’s got a ‘self-pitying heart’ to cope with (‘Deal’), and ‘the incessant fizz of past and future / refuses to shut the fuck up’ in ‘Mindfulness Practice’. Her mother is hiding dementia symptoms (‘Missing’) and she is leaving a partner after ‘twelve and a half years’ (‘Sign’).

In ‘Driver’, the poet’s mother pushes her to another kind of edge by revealing — lightly, casually — that when she left her as a baby for eight weeks, it wasn’t because of her singing career. She simply went to drive her violinist husband (the poet’s father) round America.

That abandonment in infancy has been, the poem suggests, another kind of driver — something that may explain adult self-tormenting behaviours. Anguish and fury towards her mother is vivid but suppressed: ‘There was no dagger in her Honda Accord’. But there is a dagger in the poem.

Other considerations quiver with uncertainty, like the ‘new life’ she isn’t sure she wants in ‘Deal’ and isn’t prepared to talk about in ‘Talk’. It’s a time of inescapable and threatening change, although ‘Time of My Life’ (which is about menopause) deliberately avoids that word.

The final piece is ‘Poem for Wednesday’, a day when there is ‘all to play for’, a day which is a ‘seesaw pivot / of possibility’. Even (and perhaps especially) on the edge there is a little bit of merriness, and that is a kind of saving grace:

and oh Wednesday, I think,
come on, let’s go for it,
let’s be lavish and splash out.

These are strong and truthful poems, unafraid to be personal while universal in their emotive edge. They celebrate uncertainty; they refuse to reassure; they share privacy, lavishly.

Helena Nelson in Sphinx

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