Sudbury's new poet laureate is a bilingual 2SLGBTQ+ artist with a background in theatre

The City of Greater Sudbury has a new poet laureate. Alex Tétreault is the eighth person to occupy the role, for a two-year term.

"I'm really jazzed, really excited. Also a little bit a little bit nervous about what's coming," he said.

Tétreault's background is in theatre, but he says poetry is at the heart of all art.

"Once you strip away everything else, it's like the nugget of goodness of fun of, you know, the impulse of wanting to have a conversation with folks and changing minds," he said.

"Poetry is just about everywhere."

Tétrault was born and raised in Sudbury. As poet laureate he wants to share what he loves about the city, and also show that art can be for everyone.

"The arts aren't this elitist thing that is so far away, so far removed from anyone," he said.

"We're surrounded by poetry all the time. And so I really want to encourage folks to explore that side of themselves a little bit."

Tétreault is bilingual and writes in both English and French. The first half of his inaugural poem as poet laureate starts in French and ends in English.

As a member of Sudbury's 2SLGBTQ+ community, Tétreault says that part of his identity is reflected in his work and poetry.

"As a queer artist, most of the things that I write are exceptionally gay and fun and whimsy, campy," he said.

Here is Tétreault's inaugural, and untitled, poem as poet laureate:

On laisse tomber nos fardeaux et nos masques à  la porte. Assis autour du premier feu de camp du printemps, j'ai un bâton à  marshmallow dans une main, un cidre rendu tiède dans l'autre. Pendant que notre boucane camoufle les étoiles, on se donne des nouvelles. On parle de tout et de rien, on sort le méchant. Quelqu'un va me passer sa tondeuse demain matin parce que mon parterre commence à pitié. On imagine des solutions aux plus grands problèmes de l'humanité, rien de moins. Quelqu'un dans le hot tub lâche une joke plate. Le host lance deux bûches dans les braises, signalant qu'on y est encore pour un peu. 

As the sausages come off the grill, time's come to a standstill. We don't know what tomorrow's going to bring, but all that matters is this, this place, these people, the future becoming this white blank page, a story that's ours to write. This seemingly small, insignificant night in a backyard on Patterson Street is but one of many such small moments happening tonight. These little bursts of joy, of celebration, of commiseration, of sorrow, of humanity binding us all to one another. Who could ever figure out where anything begins or ends? But, then again, why would we ever want to?