Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

David Lehman’s "Perfidia" is a cinematic, noir-infused meditation on fate, deception, and the fluidity of identity. The poem unfolds like a classic film plot, where espionage, romance, and betrayal intermingle in a landscape that is both historical and dreamlike. The title references the famous 1939 bolero song "Perfidia", which means “perfidy” or “betrayal” in Spanish—a theme central to the poem’s intrigue.

The opening lines thrust the reader into the midst of an unknown but dangerous operation: “You don’t know who these people are, or what / They’ll do to you if you’re caught, but you can’t / Back out now.” The use of second-person narration immediately immerses the reader in the perspective of a protagonist who is both an active participant and an amnesiac figure caught in a web of circumstances beyond his control. The ambiguity of “these people” and “what they’ll do” adds an air of suspense, placing the reader in a world of shadowy figures and covert missions.

The poem swiftly introduces a classic espionage trope: “it seems you agreed to carry / A briefcase into Germany.” The phrase “it seems” suggests either a loss of agency or an uncertainty about how the protagonist arrived in this situation, reinforcing the dreamlike and disoriented tone. The noir sensibility is heightened as the protagonist follows instructions: “Glass in hand, as instructed.” This brief mention of a drink recalls the archetypal hardboiled detective or spy, a figure whose relationship with alcohol is often tied to disillusionment and self-preservation.

The next sequence unfolds with cinematic precision: “You rise to dance / With the woman with the garnet earrings, who is, / Of course, the agent you’re supposed to seduce / And betray within the hour.” The “of course” wryly acknowledges the predictability of spy fiction conventions—an elegant femme fatale, a doomed romance, an inevitable double-cross. However, the poem subverts the expected outcome: “Who would have known / You’d fall in love with her?” The sudden shift toward genuine emotion disrupts the calculated mechanics of espionage, placing love and betrayal in direct opposition.

The poem then pivots away from this immediate drama, broadening its scope with a jarring transition: “Elsewhere the day / Is as gray as a newsreel, full of stripes and dots / Of rain, a blurred windshield picture of Pittsburgh.” This passage shifts from the intense intimacy of the dance to a more distant, impersonal imagery—Pittsburgh seen through a windshield in the rain, evoking old black-and-white newsreels. The fragmented, grainy aesthetic of the image mirrors the protagonist’s uncertain grasp on reality.

Yet, in contrast to the mundane, rainy Pittsburgh, the protagonist’s “real life” remains trapped in a perpetual cinematic moment: “It is always 1938, you are always dancing / With the same blonde woman with the bloodshot eyes.” The phrase “always 1938” suggests a frozen moment in time, reinforcing the idea that the protagonist is reliving the same fate repeatedly, a prisoner of a noir narrative that endlessly cycles through seduction and betrayal. The detail of “bloodshot eyes” humanizes the mysterious woman—whether from exhaustion, drinking, or tears—hinting at her own entrapment in this doomed scenario.

The poem further blurs the lines between past and present, fiction and reality, as it offers an alternate setting: “Or else it is seventy degrees and holding / In California.” This abrupt shift recalls another classic noir trope—a protagonist waking up in an unfamiliar place, with no memory of how he got there: “where you see yourself emerge unscathed / From the car crash that wiped out your memory, / Your past.” The phrase “see yourself” implies a dual consciousness, as if the protagonist is both the actor and the viewer of his own unfolding drama.

California, with its reference to Sunset Boulevard, anchors the poem in a world of classic Hollywood noir, where amnesia, lost identities, and seedy underworlds are common motifs. The line “And the piano player plays ‘Perfidia’ in your honor” is particularly evocative—“Perfidia” is not just a song but a signal, a recognition of the protagonist’s presence within this fatalistic narrative. The act of playing the song “in your honor” turns it into a personal theme, almost an anthem of his perpetual entanglement with love and betrayal.

The poem closes with an image of temptation and possibility: “And the redhead at the bar lets you buy her a drink.” This final moment suggests that the protagonist is caught in an endless cycle of seduction and deception, doomed to repeat variations of the same story with different players. The redhead, like the woman with the garnet earrings, signals the next chapter of intrigue, reinforcing the idea that the protagonist is trapped in a looping noir narrative.

Structurally, the poem moves fluidly between past and present, between multiple locations and realities, creating a sense of dislocation that mirrors the protagonist’s own uncertainty. The lack of stanza breaks enhances this seamless, cinematic quality, making the poem feel like an uninterrupted tracking shot through different scenes.

"Perfidia" captures the allure and fatalism of the noir universe, where love and treachery are inseparable, and the past is inescapable. The protagonist is neither hero nor villain, but a figure caught in a perpetual narrative of deception, seduction, and regret. Like the song that gives the poem its title, "Perfidia" lingers as a haunting refrain, evoking the beauty and inevitability of betrayal.

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