New Books In Literature

"For me, there is something so solid and comforting in stone" says Sassan Tabatabai in our conversation, and in his poem "Firestones" the words roll, weigh and satisfyingly click together. Firestones I was collecting rocks on the Cardiff coast, a testimony to centuries of silt left on the shore, of sediment pressed into stone: sandstone, shale, tufa, travertine, jasper, flint. There was the stone that knew the sadness of the sea, that saved its secrets. It was pock-marked with holes and lay half-buried in sand eager to save the ocean's spray, like tears, in its miniature pools. There was the stone that always rolled in place. It had rolled round and round with each wave, desperately trying to control the tide. The was the stone that shoe rings upon rings placed by the seas over the years, that kept time for the Pacific. There were stones that breathed sulfur, that sparked when they touched. Unremarkable in luster or shine, they were the lovers of the ocean, firestones whose sparks were not dampened by salty w