Amethyst Chest

Two new poems by Lana Silver that treasure the living world, especially its commonest and often overlooked representatives.

Thin Dalmatian Skin

I received a PIP review form today, the manila envelope grew Dalmatian spots, well
raindrops, postman’s salty thumbprints. It was free aromatherapy – for the disabled,
and it barked in my hands. I didn’t drop it though, strange because even though
I wanted to
it looked like it had already been dropped in the rain. 
It wasn’t black and white either
more of smudged baking paper, the ones who birthed glacial cookies, stale ones
from a bleeding udder,
the ones whose leftover dough made a clog in the drain.

I suffocated the form under a pretty cushion, flocked with the magpies to my local park.
I left the window open in case a dragon-sized breeze flew it out of Cardiff and far.
I saw a wood pigeon bobbing with an amethyst chest, wings inhaling coastlines,
preened tiara lifted over her head to paintbrush shadows in the riverbeds.

I don’t see her with London lens, a feathered rat on a weathered fence,
she is winged friendship visiting your disintegrating bench! To me she is:
uncommon, cyclical, worthy as any other bird,
and no less breadcrumb of common sense.
Natural like sea turtles congregating slow-motion ballet,
Jemima Puddle-Duck’s foxgloves providing nests for drops of rain,
a bride flicking, fussing curls in a mirror-dresser, plants fanning,
ducks luxuriating under a waterfall – not knowing whether they’re in a bath or shower.

I watched passers-by bragging of belonging, shelter, silently, by poking me
with sharp umbrella tips. I didn’t care – I was long over-humbled and numbed
by rain and the wind. I made it home, manhandled an innocent kettle
until it screamed but it survived, dropped on the armchair, more of falling than with flight.
Why did my history of psychosis have to be rewritten, re-lived, and re-wept inside?

II

To be clearer: I’m not pissed off with the postman,
but his raindrops were so polite and didn’t sink it, they should have done,
given how wide the sky was with glittery rainbow trinkets.
I filled in the review that evening, blankness, sleeved my wounds cautiously
in her Cruella de Vil coat. accepted a staring competition with the window, homesick.
marooned on a boat, as if

Life was no longer gleaming bright; and self-love a ghost who wouldn’t hold me right
flannel rubbed off my dalmatian skin, kettle cooled down from our awkward fight.
I noticed empty vodka bottles dotting dampness outside, waiting like candle holders
to capture rays of lamppost light.

Beach Directions

there is a kiwi keyring attached to my house keys,
doesn’t jingle like other things I have on it
sits calmly in the fruit bowl of my hand, at rest.
I got it from one of Clifton’s handmade gift shops
my student budget couldn’t afford to. I relished sunshine
popped in warm paper bag.

spring was waiting with wildflowers outside
every ray of the old sun was invited, celebrating
like grandparents laughing, dancing over cobbled heat
robins fluttered, flitted around parks in excitement
giving each other directions to the beach.

suspension bridge at night with lights
looking like a queue of cats with star-gazed eyes
queuing up to greet us, sleep by our weary sides
I found my safe place, happy inside
then covid happened, darkness reappeared,
I moved away.

animal noises of Bristol Zoo dimmed down
ghosts of happiness in imagination’s botanical air
in between towering trees; sometimes softened into fear,
then doubt. café places stopped serving coffee everywhere
without nostalgic tastes of normal for more than a year.

to sit by the suspension bridge to feel better
to stroll where squirrels fidget with endless nuts
like Gustav Klimt abusing golden glitter.

in the hairdresser at the top of Queen Street
they once placed a cappuccino by the mirror, and I sat
smiling at the mutually smiling future reflecting in the glass
and the obvious skills the hairdresser had
as she turned-up the blow-dryer and it blew away
for a little while the dampness from the past.

Lana Silver: How I write

I wrote ‘Thin Dalmatian Skin’ shortly after receiving my PIP (disability benefits) review. Even with help from my fiancé, I ended up crying halfway through filling it in. Writing the poem felt liberating and I empathise with the fictional poem-speaker, who discovers self-compassion and renewal in a green space. ‘Beach Directions’ was written during covid and responds to the complicated emotions of moving during a pandemic. The “winged friendship” that the woman in ‘Thin Dalmatian Skin’ finds is akin to what the poem-speaker in ‘Beach Directions’ longs for.

Lana Silver:

Now studying for an MA in English Literature, Silver has been a Barbican Young Poet. Her work has been published in Spectrum: Poetry Celebrating Identity, Secret Chords an anthology featuring the best of the Folklore Prize, and Cerasus Poetry Magazine #3.

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Poems copyright © Lana Silver 2025.

“Woodpigeon on the Birdbath” by Peter G Trimming is licensed under CC BY 2.0.