When Elvis was nineteen, he studied poetry with Michael Harper. It was a semester spent with early morning phones (wake-ups for 7 am office hours), boomboxes on shoulders (Elvis was his musical deputy), and Harperisms. Most of these catchphrases came from other poets before him, but announced with a raised finger, raised eyebrows and a puff of breath from four-foot-wide lungs, bibliography falls away. antagonistic cooperation. geography is fate. use trouble. heartstrings, songlines, michaeltree. And more recently, let our scars fall in love. A Galway Kinnell line (responding to the dessert party surgeries of Day One) that seemed apt as, on the way to the awards ceremony, Elvis fell into the street. Right off the curb of Gramercy Park. No scars–no blood, and even the white suit went unscathed, but Elvis scuffed up his blue suedes, and felt pretty foolish in the bike lane of Gramercy Park South. The Poetry Society of America didn’t help any. He was very proud of Harper (Frost Medal for lifetime achievement), and the whole ceremony was lovely, but it left him just nervous enough to feel fit for crying.
