Christine Valters Paintner is an American poet living in Galway, Ireland and the author of three collections of poems: Dreaming of Stones, The Wisdom of Wild Grace, and Love Holds You all published by Paraclete Press. Her poems have appeared in several journals in North America, UK, and Ireland including Stinging Fly, Crannog, Skylight 47, Boyne Berries, Headstuff, and The Galway Review and she won first place in the 8th annual Bangor Poetry Competition. You can find more of her writing and poetry at AbbeyoftheArts.com.
The Mermaid Saint
The waters of Lough Neagh rose,
swallowed the village whole,
but Lí Ban dove deep beneath
the cresting waves,
her faithful dog beside her.
Finding a cave for safety.
three years they dwelled there,
grieving their great loss,
held by water and rock.
Finally the day came
when their tears transformed them,
her into mermaid,
her dog into otter,
and they swam freely
from lake out to the sea.
The monks who caught her
in their fishing net,
bowed down in awe
at the beauty of her song
emerging from grief and wonder,
called her St. Muirgen,
meaning born of the sea.
A Poem Lives
in the unnamed constellation,
at the center of the ripple where the stone
hits the lake’s grey surface,
in the silence between heartbeats
on the hospital monitor
and when the beeping ends
in the long silence that follows.
A poem lives in the trails of joy
carved across sky by birds,
in the open hungry mouth
of a badger cub,
in the scent of lilacs spreading
like a cloak on a spring wind,
my grandmother’s favorite flower.
Grief is the Harsh Light at Midday
where the summer sun scorches
everything in her gaze,
and opening your eyes wide stings,
and the nasturtium petals wilt
and the sparrows gulp at the fountain.
There is the relentless hum of insects
and the colors have all faded to pale,
the shadows are too short to curl up inside.
Even as you expect to see your loved one
arriving home, or passing by the window
or in the chair molded to their curves,
grief burnishes every corner
and as you go on seeking something to hold onto
grief taunts you by leaving only
faint fingerprints,
stray
hairs
floating,
dust
motes
spiraling.
The Hysterectomy
I vowed to always remember
being wheeled into the operating room,
my doctor taking my hand
and the smile lines growing around her eyes
above her mask as I went to sleep.
The first thing waking from surgery,
nausea and a halo of pain around my middle.
How the nurses the next day
also held my hand and asked me to stand,
my long incision straining under gravity,
and the next day I was encouraged to walk a few steps,
shuffling, tentative, first to the bathroom
and the next day down the hall,
each slow progression a quiet miracle of healing.
A week later, my husband took me home
and wrapped my hand in his,
a slow walk around the block,
with each day a little bit further
and I revel in the marvel that is my body.
For four weeks we wrap ourselves in this rhythm,
no work, only rest and walks, and lunches
outside in the April sun, the magnolia
and cherry trees laughing all around us.
Broken Things
The sun unbraids her amber plaits,
settles below the horizon,
celebrates all that is left undone
from this day – bills, dishes, the grass
grown long outside your front door.
Perfection is a harsh companion
who holds a wide mirror to your flaws.
Better to fall in love with broken things,
with plans unfulfilled,
with the tender ache beneath your rib,
the scar across your belly, a raised pathway,
to know yourself as vulnerable
and in need so that you reach
for another on cold nights, draw close
and see the failures in each other
and love them anyway.
The Galway Review 