SUZANNE LUMMIS
Darkness in Style
Introduction to Noir
Noir—it’s a style, usually spare, devoid of sentiment, pity,
especially self-pity. It’s atmosphere, a mood, with hints of transgression in
the air, and maybe the scent of burning cigarettes, classic era Camels or Lucky
Strikes, pre-Surgeon General’s Warning. And the subject? Crime. If no crime’s
in progress, recent or eminent, then some sense of danger will do, unease. If
no specific danger, then a sense of inevitable failure will do.
In this exploration of noir, I’ve made a few choices that push the definition to its outermost. Lawrence Raab’s poem “Why It Always Rains in the Movies,” and the late C. Natale Peditto’s memoir of Philadelphia in the 50s, early 60s, are as free of violence and mayhem as a thing can be but still be noir. Lynne Thompson’s recollection of two murdered women is as close to a social justice poem as a thing can be and still be noir. (In fact, it straddles both sensibilities, and were it to appear in an anthology of social justice poems the editor might note that “The Ways of Remembering Women” is as close to noir as a thing can be and still be a social justice poem.) Virgil Suárez’s “The Lion Head Belt Buckle” speaks in a language as relaxed and natural as it can be and still… Well, you get the idea.
And all along I’ve had reservations about this realm that’s
absorbed me for some decades. Film noir festivals, private eye and crime-story
fast-reads, book series gathering short fiction set in various cities, Brooklyn
Noir, Boston Noir, Bagdad Noir… just to name a few of the “B”s. It sounds like
fun. It’s not. In life it’s not. When you yourself are the victim of violence,
or someone close to you is, the entertainment value drops precipitously. Both
Christina Cha’s shattering non-fiction piece and—though technically it be
fiction—Lou Mathews’ story, remind us of the darkest side of the darkest
art—the real-world side.
Then, there’s the smack-on, straight up noir style, many
examples here, such as Kim Addonizio’s fiction, “The Wishing Well”— note the
abbreviated voice, telegraphic speed, sentences that seem shot from a
handgun.
Ironically, paradoxically, I end this anthology of crimes or
reflections on crime, true or imagined, on film or in poetry, with dancing. The
word dancing. Noir loves paradox— so does poetry. My students have heard me
avow it: Poetry loves paradox.
That’s where I end, but I begin with a premonition of doom. That’d be another Lawrence Raab poem. And with truth. You bet I do—feels like truth to me, though I have no ties to espionage or jewel heists, or whatever game the speaker’s cast his dice in. And I have never eyed a bullet in midair heading my way. However, certain days, certain hours of certain days, I’ve felt something of what the speaker expresses.
I dedicate this assortment of noir writings to those who
have ever, for a moment or two, or many, felt a wee bit doomed, so that they’ll
know they’re not alone. And, I dedicate it to those who’ve never in their lives
had such a notion, so that they can consider—once again—how lucky they
are.
American poet Suzanne Lummis has been variously associated
with The Fresno Poets, the Stand-Up Poets—a Los Angeles based uprising in the
90s that allowed for irreverence and a performance-driven version of literary
poetry—and poetry noir, both the writing and defining of it. Poetry.la produces
her web series on film noir and contemporary poetry, They Write by Night.
She is the editor of The Pacific Coast Poetry Series (imprint of Beyond Baroque
Books), and editor of the anthology Wide Awake: Poets of Los Angeles and
Beyond. Her articles and essays have appeared in The Los Angeles Times,
Los Angeles Review of Books, Another Chicago Magazine and elsewhere, and
her poems in Ploughshares, The Antioch Review, Plume, New Ohio Review, The
New Yorker, etc. She has published three poetry collections; her plays have
been produced in three cities; she’s taught through the UCLA Extension Writers
Program for some decades; she was a 2018/19 COLA (City of Los Angeles) fellow;
she viewed the Great Sphinx of Tanis in the Louvre when she was five—or so
she’s been told.
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