Friends, I'm delighted to feature Niall M. Oliver, author of the chapbook My Boss (Hedgehog Press, 2020) along with his heartfelt poems, "I Could Eat You Up" (previously published by Fly On The Wall Press), and heretofore unpublished, "Five Memories." Thank you, Niall, for allowing me to feature your fine poetry!
I Could Eat You Up
I absolutely could! says your Grandmother,
as she shares you around like a birthday cake.
She claims your elegant fingers for herself,
then serves your sturdy farmer’s legs to Grandad.
Beaming Aunties are dished your perfect smile,
whilst your eyes go to your Mum, just as they did
that first moment you lay glazed and sticky on her skin.
For me? Not as much as a toe, so I wait patiently
until everyone goes, then piece you back together,
smoothing your joins with my lips. I place
your ear to my heart, and whisper you to rest,
as you send out puff after puff of buttercream breath--
my generous boy, still giving in your sleep.
as she shares you around like a birthday cake.
She claims your elegant fingers for herself,
then serves your sturdy farmer’s legs to Grandad.
Beaming Aunties are dished your perfect smile,
whilst your eyes go to your Mum, just as they did
that first moment you lay glazed and sticky on her skin.
For me? Not as much as a toe, so I wait patiently
until everyone goes, then piece you back together,
smoothing your joins with my lips. I place
your ear to my heart, and whisper you to rest,
as you send out puff after puff of buttercream breath--
my generous boy, still giving in your sleep.
Five Memories
Grandad Charlie was missing a finger-joint
on his right hand. The skin around the stub
felt waxy and tough like the flesh of an almond.
He owned a brown Fiat with orange peel textured seats.
One Easter he drove me to the beach and held my bucket
as I collected shells and pebbles.
Once when I had fever, he nursed me on his lap,
and fed me sips of Lucozade from a glass bottle
wrapped in crinkly yellow cellophane.
On Sundays, when my parents were at mass,
we’d sit religiously by the window, and give nick-
names to the chapel people walking past.
When I was eight he died of cancer.
I kicked and cried to get away from his bedside.
After his funeral I ate jam tarts in the parish hall.
And that’s all I can recall, about Grandad Charlie.
on his right hand. The skin around the stub
felt waxy and tough like the flesh of an almond.
He owned a brown Fiat with orange peel textured seats.
One Easter he drove me to the beach and held my bucket
as I collected shells and pebbles.
Once when I had fever, he nursed me on his lap,
and fed me sips of Lucozade from a glass bottle
wrapped in crinkly yellow cellophane.
On Sundays, when my parents were at mass,
we’d sit religiously by the window, and give nick-
names to the chapel people walking past.
When I was eight he died of cancer.
I kicked and cried to get away from his bedside.
After his funeral I ate jam tarts in the parish hall.
And that’s all I can recall, about Grandad Charlie.
Niall M. Oliver
lives in Ireland with his wife and three sons. His poems have appeared in Acumen, Atrium, The Honest Ulsterman, Ink Sweat & Tears, as well as several other journals. He is the author of My Boss (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020), and his latest pamphlet I Want To Tell You Something To Remember, will be published by Nine Pens later this year (2023). Niall is on wordpress at:
https://niallmoliverpoetry.wordpress.com/
lives in Ireland with his wife and three sons. His poems have appeared in Acumen, Atrium, The Honest Ulsterman, Ink Sweat & Tears, as well as several other journals. He is the author of My Boss (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020), and his latest pamphlet I Want To Tell You Something To Remember, will be published by Nine Pens later this year (2023). Niall is on wordpress at:
https://niallmoliverpoetry.wordpress.com/