Photograph: Do Pham, Stanford University

Poetry is more than words on a page—it’s a visual, sonic, and cinematic experience. This is the philosophy of A. Van Jordan, an award-winning poet whose work bridges the intersections of film, music, and history. The celebrated poet and Stanford University professor spoke with student editors from The Amistad on February 10, 2025 about his creative process and read from his latest collection, When I Waked, I Cried to Dream Again (2025).

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Jordan’s work is lauded for its innovative structure and historical depth. His accolades include a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Pushcart Prize, and a Whiting Writers Award. But beyond the honors, his poetry serves as a bridge between past and present, the personal and the political. Among the most striking features of his work are his “dictionary poems,” which unpack layers of meaning within single words, pushing the boundaries of form and language. More than telling stories, Jordan’s poetry makes readers witness the weight of history while redefining the possibilities of the poetic form.

 

The following is an excerpt of his conversation with editors of The Amistad in the Literature and Publishing class.

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Amistad Editors: A lot of your work engages with music and multimedia influences. How does your knowledge of these art forms shape your poetic approach and enhance the depth of your poetry?

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Jordan: I think all art forms are connected. I’ve worked a lot with film and music, and I’m always seeing parallels between those forms and poetry. In film theory, they often reference poetry to explain cinematic movement. For me, the pacing and imagery in a poem are influenced by film and visual art. I see poetry as a visual medium—like a filmmaker arranging props in a scene. When I’m writing, I think about setting, lighting, and color palette—how those choices affect the tone of the poem. All of that’s in my mind as I work through it.

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Amistad Editors: Thank you. That was really rich. If I could ask you to expand on that a little more—this connection between different genres—how would you say music specifically contributes to your poetic process?

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Jordan: Music really influences the meter and sonic quality of a poem. I think about rhythm and elements like alliteration and assonance. Once you learn these in linguistics, you start noticing them everywhere—in music, in everyday speech. When I’m writing, I’m thinking about the pace, where the rhythm shifts, and where there’s silence around a word or phrase. It’s like a musical composition. You can modulate the tone of a poem the way a musician modulates a song. When you read a poem aloud, you should be able to hear the music in it.

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Amistad Editors: Speaking of structure and rhythm, I’d love to ask you about your definition poems. These go beyond simply defining words—they seem to tell a story or reveal a deeper narrative. When you write them, do you start with a specific word and then find a story to connect to it, or do you begin with the story and find a word that fits?

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Jordan: I started the definition poems while working with the Oxford English Dictionary. I was reading the word "to," and the definition felt like a story unfolding. I began writing poems that adhered to the dictionary’s structure. The fun came from following the word’s evolution, even when it shifted. It was about discovering a narrative within the framework of the definition.

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Amistad Editors: When you’re revising, do you have a specific approach to maintaining consistency in your poems, or do you allow the poem’s evolution to guide its direction?

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Jordan: There’s usually more than one version of a poem. You can change punctuation, line breaks, or structure, and it becomes a completely different poem. It’s not about getting it "right" but finding the version that resonates with you—the one that sounds the way you want it to, the one that reflects the conversation you want to have with the world.

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Amistad Editors: Thank you. I want to shift for a moment to “Airsoft Prelude,” your poem about Tamir Rice. Could you tell us what went through your mind as you were writing it?

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Jordan: In “Airsoft Prelude,” I wanted to explore what it means to be a Black boy in America, where even play can be fatal. I thought about how white childhood is constantly affirmed—like in The Andy Griffith Show, where kids run around with toy guns for laughs. Tamir didn’t get that same grace. He didn’t get to just be a boy in the park.

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That’s what Airsoft is about. How a toy gun in a Black boy’s pocket becomes as dangerous as a real one. Like Schrödinger’s cat, Tamir existed in a paradox—neither threat nor harmless, neither alive nor dead—until the police made their decision.

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