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Remix: Jade Wallace interviews Ambrose Albert

Some poets seem to resist engaging with new technologies in their work. In “choosing the bear,” however, you leap headlong into social media discourse, composing a poem from TikTok comments. What drew you to this particular discourse, and to engaging with social media generally?

When it comes to engaging with new tech or social media in poetry, I think some poets resist doing so because they want to avoid dating their writing or potentially alienating a group of readers who may not be familiar with the specific technology or platform.

At times when I’ve considered whether or not to engage with social media, a certain technology, or even pop culture, I think of Kayla Czaga’s “Gone is the VHS, Gone is the Whir.” It’s a poem that captures a moment in time, a sense of nostalgia. While Kayla’s poem focuses on an older technology, there are kids now who have never heard of a VHS or been to a Blockbuster. In the same way that a reference to MSN Messenger or MySpace in a poem would give away my age.

I recognize that there will be readers who recognize the tech while others may need to go on a bit of a scavenger hunt to find out what it is, what it was like. With “choosing the bear,” I don’t feel like anything was lost by referencing TikTok. The meaning of the poem, what it is trying to get across, is there with or without the social media.

I do feel that if I had tried to write about the conversation that was happening without the context of it being online and in a public forum, the poem would have been missing something vital for those who had experienced the moment first hand.

“choosing the bear” is, as you say in your note, a found poem. When you’re writing a found poem, do you have to go looking for the fragments and lines you want to include in the finished work, or do you come across them by chance, or is it some combination of both methods? And how do you know when a line deserves to be included?

I knew that I wanted the poem to be in the voices of those who were explaining why they were choosing the bear—predominantly women—which is why I chose the found poem format.

In terms of process, I took a deep dive into TikTok videos and comment sections on the subject and jotted down what was being said. From there I grouped comments together and combined any that were repeats or expressed similar sentiments. It was hard to cut lines down, as so many of the comments deserved to be included.

I also wanted to get a sense of the misogynistic comments that were happening on TikTok too, without giving them space in the poem itself. A lot of the lines in the poem were pulled from responses to negative, chauvinistic comments expressing disbelief that anyone would choose a bear over a man.

A related question: how do you choose lines for epigraphs? In “top surgery and it’s completely different but also still top surgery” you use a Lucy Dacus lyric as the epigraph, for example; why did that feel like a good fit?

A large part of my writing process involves listening to music, so lyric epigraphs are not unusual for me. I like how they serve as a playlist for the reader. A bread crumb for them to follow. And, of course, a nod to a song or artist who influenced the poem.

The lyrics I’d chosen from Lucy Dacus’ song “Please Stay” really resonated with me while I was early in my transition. I was only just coming out publicly, and I couldn’t help returning to that section of the song over and over again.

The name of the poem is a music nod too. It references Charlie XCX’s album Brat and It's Completely Different but Also Still Brat, a compilation of remixes. I wanted the poem to imagine a more intimate, less sterile version of gender-affirming care. To “remix” the medical, often cold care trans folks receive (if we can access gender-affirming care at all).

I know a few poets that have created playlists to accompany their poetry like jaye simpson had done for it was never going to be okay. I love having the opportunity to explore what music or other artform inspired a poet, and there are certainly ekphrastic qualities to this poem and many of my others.

As I was reading “choosing the bear,” I was thinking about how there’s an analogy to be made between writing a found poem and turning stone into sculpture. Something about whittling down the material until you reach your revision. Then in your next poem, “top surgery and it’s completely different but also still top surgery,” you talk about chiselling marble to make a statue. Was that a purposeful juxtaposition on your part, or a happy accident? And do you believe there are accidents in writing?

I wish I could take credit and say it was intentional! The two poems were written some time apart, but the process of crafting a found poem is reminiscent of the process of rendering stone into sculpture. It also reminded me a lot of cooking. I had the ingredients but needed to balance the flavours.

One of the aspects of poetry that I love is what our readers take away from our work. What they read between the lines and what resonates with them. The patterns and connections they see that we may not have thought about. I definitely believe there are accidents in writing, happy accidents and unintended ones.

Likewise, I can’t help but notice that both of your poems are built on tercets. Was that an intentional pairing? And how in general, do you decide on the shape your stanzas will take in a poem?

Generally, I draft my poems without intentional shape or form. Once I have the initial concept down on paper, I look to see if there are any patterns in the draft that I like. With “choosing the bear” and “top surgery,” tercets must have felt right. Like putting three bay leaves into a chicken soup or putting books on a shelf in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.

I do naturally gravitate towards certain characteristics when I’m polishing a poem. For example, lines that are of similar lengths. For whatever reason, it scratches an itch in my brain.

Often, I like to have set stanza types in a poem and sometimes have to force myself to break a pattern if it isn’t serving what I’m writing. I’m fortunate to workshop with a group of poets (s/o to the Egg Poets) who encourage me to try out new forms and structures!

Occasionally, I do write a poem with a specific form or shape in mind. For example, a recent poem “coup de foudre” is shaped like a lightning bolt.

This is all to say, I am a bit all over the place!

Poets love the moon, as you may know, but I also suspect they love Polaroids. Reading your line, “a ticket stub or sun-dogged Polaroid. lost and found,” immediately took me back to another poem: “At night your ghost comes barreling down I-95/ a butterfly net in its sturdy freckled fist/ sweeping the rushing wind for/ Polaroid ash” (Renée Agatep, “Decoupage”). Can you help me solve the mystery of why Polaroids hold such charm for poets?

There’s a certain magic to Polaroids. The way you can watch them develop in front of your eyes. The wait to see if the picture turned out or if there is glare, a thumb, a blurred figure. Just being able to hold it in your hands at a time when our entire lives are captured on smart phones and physical media is becoming more scarce.

When I started writing poetry, I was terrified of coming across cliché. But I love the moon. I love moon poems. I love other poets who love the moon and love countless moon poems, like “i love you to the moon &” by Chen Chen. And now we have a whole second quasi-moon to write poems about.

When I write about a topic or include an image that has been written about extensively by other poets, I feel like I am in community or trying my hand at a family recipe. We’ve been staring at the moon for millennia and writing about it as long, yet still there are poems that feel fresh and unexpected.

 

 

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