Praise for THE SALT
Peter Schireson’s poems are constructed in ringing clarity. They also have the feeling of fable: they seem full of reality, but appear slightly larger-than-life, and more permanent than merely anecdotal. Whether he’s writing about the after-effects of happenstance street encounters or the after-effects of eating enchiladas, about the power relations inherent in mosquito bites or about Miley Cyrus’ tongue or a vase of spilled violets, Schireson’s poems are witty, tender and a little tough. His voice in The Salt is always intelligently cheerful, gracefully serious–seriously graceful.
Peter Schireson is a master of practical mystique, an honest investigator of what is and what might be, who reveals again and again, the sweetness of existence: in a photo of Miley Cyrus, in a restaurant over a big plate of enchiladas, even in a footnote. He is a poet of wonder, delight, and discovery; funny and serious, open and grounded. In The Salt, he has written a book that both focuses and sustains me.
Once in a while, a poet appears who know all the tricks but doesn’t use them. Peter Schireson’s poems steer clear of inessential decoration, and move directly toward each center of gravity, which is often a single moment of subtle but piercing insight. Curious, smart, tender, sly, funny, and modest, Schireson’s is a fresh and very welcome voice. I love these poems.