Text / Poem:

Where Cremation Fires Burn


Pain can
turn the heart’s cradle
to stone,
turn bitter words
that cling onto the
sockets of the eyes
into warm leaking salt.

Yet does not the soul
dance the most
where cremation fires burn?

– Yasin Chines

Typewriter Poetry – ‘Where Cremation Fires Burn’ ©

“Pain can turn the heart’s cradle to stone” is a line from John O’Donnohue’s piece, ‘Invocation’, which was the prompt for this poem.


NaPoWriMo: Day 30 (Oh What We Could Be)

Text / Poem:

Oh What We Could Be


Oh what we could be,
if we stop being fossils.
The sizzles we could become,
if, for a moment, we paused
to look and listen at the
wild geese; high in the air,
in their famous V,
heading home.

by Yasin Chines

Typewriter poetry – Oh What We Could Be ©

NaPoWriMo: Day 29 (Clotted and Dried)

Text / Poem:

Clotted and Dried


Clotted & dried mid-flow,
my words are much
like dried nosebleeds.
Coating my nostril walls,
making me think that
everyone is wearing
anguish like perfume.

by Yasin Chines

Typewriter poetry – Clotted and Dried ©

NaPoWriMo: Day 28 (Unhuman Bellowing

Text / Poem:

Unhuman Bellowing


I’ve learnt that joy
comes like sea-froth.
By the time we bustle
across the slushy sand
to seize it, it withers away;
leaving only the
murmured rumour of its return.
And our quenchless eyes,
glazed, sink back into their caves,
filled with that very unhuman bellowing.

by Yasin Chines

Typewriter poetry – Unhuman Bellowing ©

NaPoWriMo: Day 27 (Crawlies)

Text / Poem:



I’ve gotten used to
this state of itch,
that I’ve forgotten the
difference between dancing
and the frantic jumping,
shirt-widening, to let the
crawlies fall out.

by Yasin Chines

Typewriter poetry – Crawlies ©

NaPoWriMo: Day 26 (Summer)

Text / Poem:



lisps of slippered feet.
Wet toes sleeved by warm sand.
The invisible promise of love
in half-blushed late evenings.
And the waves,
like a conductor of an orchestra,
bringing the wailing of flesh
into symphonic prose.

by Yasin Chines

Typewriter Poetry – Summer©

NaPoWriMo: Day 25 (Sometimes Squirrels)

Text / Poetry:



lines of poetry,
or squirrels,
are exactly what stops
men from putting pistols
to their temples,
or women jumping
from forty-storey windows.

by Yasin Chines

(Photography by myself)