Caveat Lector Issue Twelve

D E C E M B E R 2 0 2 1

CAVEAT LECTOR

I S S U E T W E L V E

U n i v e r s i t y C o l l e g e D u b l i n

Contents

1 Artist's palette

Anna Harrison

2 A Free State is not Free From Its Past

Conor Henry

4

Fishing For Uncles

Jo Bear

5 Purple Boots

Anna Berry

7 Monday

Pica

8 Astigmatism

Nicole Svagr

10 Temporarily Trademarked

Anonymous

11 Lemsipping away

Rory Galvin

12 Paradise Lost in Manhattan

John-Joe Twomey

13 Little House

Jo Bear

15 The Bitter Tooth

Connie Heather

16 Q&A

Katie Farrell

17 A Primary Education

Carole Wood

22 Paper Person

Connie Heather

24 in an aisle of my smallish

supermarket, hiding

John-Joe Twomey

26 session music

Naoise Deeney

27 why i write

Katie Farrell

29 in our country of insurrection

Jo Bear

30 personality test no. 25

Conor Henry

32 twenty's last month

John-Joe Twomey

34 final autumn

Connie Heather

photography credits

Beyer

Andrea

Boyle-Darby

Keeva

Corgoova

Vivienne

Doherty-Greene

Hannah

Photo by Brian Bueno

Cover

Photo by Brandon Brady

Editorial

Page Photo by Sarah

Contents

McKernan

Pula

Victoria

O’Sullivan

Rachel

Symonds

Peter

Wilson

Clodagh

Publications Officers

Ellen O'Brien

Julia Labedz

Publications Team

of a sudden, winter’s icy chill has crept in around us to draw our first

All

to a close! After making it through what we can all agree to

semester

been a unique couple of months back on campus here at UCD, it’s

have

for you to press pause and settle in somewhere warm and cosy to

time

some original work written by your fellow students. We’d like to say

enjoy

sincere thank you to every person who trusted us by submitting their

a

- the selection process, as always, was not easy; the talent and

work

displayed by all of the submissions continues to overwhelm

conviction

We’d also like to thank the Committee of 110 for all of their support,

us.

of course, the Publications Team, who poured their hearts into this

and

process.

has been an absolute privilege for us to fulfil this role and curate what

It

believe to be an incredibly special body of work. For us, this edition

we

Caveat is underpinned by the idea of connection - to the self, to

of

and to the myriad of moments in which we find ourselves, both

others,

and vast. We hope that you feel these elements as you read,

intimate

Publications Officers,

Your

& Julia

Ellen

Note from the Editors

and enjoy the journey that these pieces will take you on, as we have.

Artist's Palette

The embroiderer sits on low chair

by a long window, bent over a hoop

taut with pressed linen, a fine needle

poised midst thumb and forefinger.

Skeins of coloured cotton pool in

lap, coiled like twisted rainbows

Outside a heavy sky empties rain

to pavement, down the blue gutter

to drain, along unseen lead pipes,

to brown rivers, into the pea green sea.


Purple lavender sags under wet weight,

and peach rose petals depart their core

An old man stooped over a stick,, slowly

passes the glass, his pale bald head low,

a grey scarf flecked with yellow, knotted

at the neck. Beneath his feet, damp dead

leaves dye the pavement rust red, stick

to soles of his black hob nail boots.

By Anna Harrison

1

2

can we raise the tricolour and

How

children like dolls into salutes

Move

anthem-singing, if they know

And

what for?

Not

iron, sky-high palms raised

Larkin's

Christ, and like Christ, his messages

Like

apart by vultures and doves

Picked

only the 'righteous' remain

Until

carries no weight

Bloodshed

the heavy truths are disguised,

If

dismantled to hide

Dismissed,

ugly little faces of Ireland's

The

roots, the pests that

Rotting

every inch of Her flower

Plague

hand that pulled the trigger on Collins

The

the hands that pushed them to it

And

A Free State is Not Free From

Its Past

- hiding in the shade of History

suffering - suffrage -

Freedom's

not seen, touched, heard, felt,

Is

warnings not heeded,

Connolly's

now: Even

rules us. Through loans and

She

stand-alones, baptised

The

Mourned, grieved.

By mothers and martyrs;

She rules us.

By Conor Henry

Photo by Viktoria Pula


3

I.

I think of you there is always water. You are standing

When

I watch, you unhook their lips & lower them into the river

As

I think I can see god in this, the gentleness only the trout know.

&

II.

have never seen you swim. It was my father who saved me

I

I even touched the bottom. There is a part of me

before

for you still, to close the gaping O of your mouth

waiting

leap like a scaley thing, the light refracting our bodies

&

I become something you could have loved

until

Fishing for uncles

in the current, wearing your mother's face & the fish are biting.

from your pool when I was two, making himself a buoy

By Jo Bear


4

Unstoppable

dare you to mess with me

I

with one moment

But

glance on that small familiar screen

One

questioning everything

I'm

into a life I know nothing about

Insight

thirty second snapshot

Those

faces and certain mentions

Smiling

know my worth

I

I do Really,

to square one

Back

so confident

Not

Purple boots

Purple boots

Black tights, skirt and a top that fits just right

Sting more than they really should

But right now I don't want to listen to logic

In those

5

for now

Stoppable

don't mess with me

Please

Purple boots

Black tights, skirt and a top that fits just right

ByAnna Berry

6

Photo by Rachel O'Sullivan

my tears

Hold

my fears

Walk

me chocolate

Tell

you go

There

Gone again.

Monday


ByPica

7

enjoy watching traffic lights at night. My astigmatism gives them

I

There is something holy in the shift from green, to yellow, to

haloes.

hair is the colour of mustard.

My

despise the taste of sparkling water It tastes like radio static.

I

count my steps when I walk. One. Two. Three. Four.

I

take a long stride to avoid the crack. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

I

feel cities breathe when I go down their streets. Paris sighs

I

London sucks in greedily. Dublin fills its lungs and belts out

dreamily.

cat died three years ago. We buried him under a rose bush. I

My

he mummified in the drought that summer.

think

am not afraid of death.

I

always tells me that I have A Man's Brain because I am

Everyone

have seven names. They all mean victory. People pick the one

I

easiest for them to chew.

that's

still miss VHS tapes. The whirring of the machine as it rewound.

I

Memories forever suspended on a metallic string.

Brr...click...play.

Astigmatism

red. And back again. A cycle of rebirth in the darkness.

a song.

objective. I don't see how that makes it any less female.

There is religion in the darkness between one and three am.

8

in the dirt caught beneath my fingernails. Magic in the maroon

Art

under my eyes.

circles

traffic light switches. Gold. Ruby. Emerald. And life begins

The

anew.

By Nicole Svagr


9


surrender… and succumb to your hands each

I

time,

aware of the pain they will immerse me in.

fully

of bruise engulf my wrists-

Cuffs

my ankles, crawl my shin bones.

Litter

them together; we create

Connecting

constellations.

diffuse like ink in water with your touch,

They

spread my skin like bad news on a Sunday

And

morning.

trademarked,

Temporarily

inside eternally inscribed.

But

scars, they run my back like train-tracks;

The

between my thighs, lies, the train-wreck

And

temporarily

trademarked

(TW: abuse / Harm)

that you caused.

Anonymous

10

sweet shite slides down my poor sickly throat.

Scalding

see-through snot slips from one stupid nostril.

Sticky

sits as synonyms send to friends cancelling plans.

Shame

sickness saddles up in my sweaty stinky bed.

Stifling

Lemsip laps longingly in my mouth.

Lemony

itself lookout of my throat for lounging lackeys.

Letting

gold boiling like lava living within me.

Liquid

labels limit looming lethargy.

Laminated

mounts itself in my mouth - menacingly.

Mucus

over microscopic miles with malignance.

Marching

in waves meeting molars and myself.

Moving

slime met with mortal madness.

Meaningless

throat transpires thoughts terrible throughout.

Tickled

through tightened tendons to treat.

Travelling

thoroughly thinking things could be worse.

Though

to today I can continue to testify. Thank you.

Thanks

Lemsipping Away

11

By Rory Galvin

the hurricane winds came down and crushed us:

And

fast but heavy;

Not

brother drank beer after beer in the back room and died,

My

came to life again for dinner under a star sky gone bad;

But

man alone against the sea,

A

stakes into the sand offshore;

Driving

Paradise Lost in

Manhattan

Water in the air but no light to see it by.

—And later we all cried like so many lost horses past the outback

The next day, through darkness, I see it:

Lonely bays between railways.

12

Photo by Kevin Oyewole

now, and separate, the train ghosts on through the bridge;

Silently,

us I leave paradise, strewn and strange

Behind

us some day be an equinox, our bodies balancing out

Let

bitter days. When the grasshoppers come, may we climb

these

we can only breathe sparks enough for ignition.

until

is so much hunger yet to burn through these fields.

There

say that I would not have survived the winter & we pretend

I

I am joking; that we do not know how many ways there are

that

bury a body in South Dakota. Lying awake in the cat’s cradle

to

your city I think of houses built into chasms of sod

of

Hurricane winds all gone but air still heavy

By John-Joe Twomey

Little House

For Charlie


13

grass brushing children’s crowns. We are playing dress-up

&

borrowed time, gentling shoulders into suit jackets & linen

with

There is a giddiness in this, when we no longer recognize

skirts.

other’s silhouettes. Tomorrow, the tumbleweed could take us

each

I think of your body crouched over a fire, urging

anywhere.

crescendo, the flush of your skin, going to come home again.

its

By Jo Bear


14

laugh as they pull out their own bones,

Children

proudly to showcase blood-filled pools

Smiling

which the future rises like a mythical beast, dripping red.

From

monster named wisdom will be last to emerge and first to go

The

glittering ruby red, incisors rattle against each other

Gums

gold coins in a bulging purse.

Like

are stockbrokers in the making, buying and selling their bones

They

exchanging canines as currency.

And

they sink into eternal sleep, they’ll dream underneath

When

a winged creature burying down to their molars,

Of

who is to know if we took to the ground with a spade

And

prise open a wooden lid, if they would be there at all,

To

The Bitter Tooth

(TW: Blood)

And cause far more pain than it is worth.

Come to collect the bones that are owed.

Or if there would be a pile of change in their place.

By Connie Heather

15

words hanging in the room,

Sour

breath,

Held

I have to?

Do

ask and I don’t

You

the strength to say yes.

Have

because if not

Yes

will have blood on my hands and

I

cannot fathom something

I

that enormity when

Of

feels as though

It

already been chewed,

I’ve

and spat back out.

Swallowed

you divorced from the truth?

Are

think, divorce implies a

I

of belief and trust

Relationship

which I’ve never known with truth,

One

deceit, only empty answers

Only

questions that kneel

To

q&a

By Katie

Farrell


I think you spend a lot of time avoiding things.

A sigh.

16

Down beside me and resign.

A Primary Education


It wasn’t raining, for once. That’s one of the things I remember clearly. A slice

of sunlight even peeked through the clouds for most of that day. It was April of

1997 and the end of the world was only a few years away. Back then the

Millennium was the most-talked about thing since mobile phones were

invented. I wasn’t convinced what they were saying was true, all that hysteria

about computers melting down. At that age, three years into the future was

almost incomprehensible. I was twelve.

I got off the school bus around half past three. My bag felt heavy on my

back. It had been a long day, more so than usual. Everyone in my class knew

what was going on. They whispered about it when our teacher’s back was

turned and in the yard at break. I caught phrases here and there: “Got lost”,

da’s helping to look” and “Sshh, there’s Gary.”

“My

17

children are capable of being discreet then my most of my

If

were doing their best. There were a few exceptions though.

classmates

I had had a run-in with Joe Freeman, one of those unfortunate

Earlier

who had not been bestowed with either sense or a working pair

people

eyes, (his glasses were big enough to obscure the top half of his

of

face).

Gary,” Joe said, making his way over to me. Big break was almost

“Hi

and the schoolyard was alive with the sound of youth; that is to

over

a raucous melange of squealing, laughter and shouted insults. I

say,

in no mood to chat.

was

save you the bother — there’s no news.”

“I’ll

eager expression shifted to defensive. “I was only

Joe’s

snorted and shook my head in frustration, but judging by the slackjawed

I

look of his face I needed to spell it out for him. “When. They.

sorry I asked,” he said, backing away. Give the boy a round of

“Jesus,

he’d actually copped on. Maybe I had been a bit mean,

applause,

then all I had wanted was for school to be over so I could go

but

I was on my way out the door after the three o’clock bell went

home.

I wasn’t supposed to hear any of it, obviously. This was because I was

John’s best friend, and John’s little brother hadn’t been seen in a whole

week.

going to ask about John.

When’s he comin’ back to school?”

Find. Thomas.” I wondered what planet he was actually living on.

when Miss McCarthy called me back.

18

are you, Gary?”

“How

“Fine.”

you sure you’re coping okay with all this?”

“Are

not my brother that’s missing, is it Miss?” She flinched and I

“It’s

felt bad, but she had caught me off guard. I expected her

immediately

reprimand me but instead she just said, “I suppose not,” and turned

to

to clean the blackboard.

Counselling wasn’t exactly to the fore in the nineties school system. We

were lucky we had a whole teacher to ourselves. Fourth and fifth class

had to share. It was a rural school in a tiny village that served children

from all the surrounding areas. I couldn’t wait until I got out of there, and

into one of the secondary schools in town. The town, Ennismore, was a

mere four and a half miles from my house. It was a place which, in my

mind, held the promise of big, new discoveries. After all, I was only what

the townies referred to as a ‘bogger’ and a twelve-year-old one at that.

I barely made the bus home. I was cursing the teacher all the way up

the lane to my house. I missed John. He made things seem better

somehow, more exciting. He was always joking around and coming up

with new trouble to get into. I wanted to see him but my mother had

told me to stay away. It didn’t seem fair. Surely, he’d need someone to

distract him now more than ever? I didn’t understand why she forbade

me, but I did what I was told. I hadn’t laid eyes on him in exactly four

days.

My cat, Soots, met me at the door. She meowed and wound in and around

my legs as I tried to make my way to the kitchen table. When she almost

tripped me up, I shouted at her to buzz off. I dropped my bag on the table

and it landed with a loud thunk. She hissed in surprise and I bent down to

pick her up.

“Sorry Soots, I’m not mad at you.” I petted her little black head and gently

her back on the floor. That was when Mam came in.

set

19

20

“Gary, you’re home.” She sounded slightly out of breath, and I smelled a

faint whiff of cigarettes coming from her direction.

“You’re not supposed to be smoking. Dad said so.”

She came around the table, acting as though she hadn’t heard me. Her

face was composed into an emotionless mask but her eyes were jumpy,

and slightly bloodshot. My head started to feel light for some reason and I

noticed my palms were sweating.

“He’ll give out if he catches you, you know.” My voice sounded kind of far

away because there was this rushing sound in my ears, loud enough that I

almost didn’t catch what she said next.

“Gary, pet. Never mind that.” She inhaled sharply and went on,

“Thomas is dead. They found him this afternoon while you were in

school.”

My throat was dry and my palms were sweaty. This struck me as funny

and a small giggle escaped my lips. It hung in the air between us like a

burp. Mam’s eyes widened in alarm. She reached into her handbag and

brought out her pack of cigarettes, fiddling nervously with the box while

she waited for me to say something, I suppose.

After a short but dread-filled silence, I found my voice. “Where?”

“By the river.”

“By the river or in the river?”

She looked away.

“Mam?”

“In it.” She plucked a fag from the box and lit it. The smoke appeared blue in the

light of the window. It snaked towards me in a lazy, sinuous way.

I got an unexpected image of his little pale body, floating along the river with his

eyes open and unseeing, a milky film over them. A length of river weed tangled in

one of his bare feet. There was a red runner on the other one. Blonde hair fanned in

a watery halo around his head, the sunlight shimmering in it, and from the south a

band of clouds drew close, the grimy shade of nicotine-stained fingers.

expression was dubious but she could see I was intent on going. “Well

Her

then, but you stay out of Pat and Grainne’s way. There’ll be a lot

alright

visitors: family, the guards and such.” She sighed heavily, and said

of

poor people, I don’t know what the Lord’s thinking sometimes if I’m

“Those

She crossed herself immediately after, all the same, like taking

honest.”

an insurance policy.

out

said, “I promise I’ll come straight home if I’m not wanted. I’ll be

I

for dinner.”

back

gulping a glass of water, I hurried out the door, but it was only

After

the walk over to John’s house that I realised that I had no idea what I

on

going to do when I got there. Or say, for that matter. Hi, Mr. and

was

Donnelly, I’m sorry your son is dead? I shivered at the thought.

Mrs.

they would turn me away at the door. Maybe John’s granny

Maybe

shout at me to scat. Would John even want to see me? Doubt

would

21

I just about made it to the kitchen sink in time. I felt Mam’s arms around

me when I finished retching, guiding me to the chair. She mopped my face

with a wet tea-towel and opened the window wide. The smell of smoke

was making my stomach feel like a washing machine on a high spin-cycle.

I found my voice somewhere down in my school shoes. It croaked, “Can I

go and see John?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea at the moment. They might want to be left

in peace,” she said, but she sounded unsure, like she really didn’t know

what a parent in that position might want.

“But I know John would want me there! If he doesn’t, I’ll leave. Where’s the

harm Mam?”

crept into my mind for the first time. Then fear.

22

rain held off but the day had turned cool. I walked faster

The

the Donnelly’s but with each step I took I felt my body grow

towards

little colder, and the image of Thomas in the river came to be

a

unbidden.

again,

words breathe air into your collapsed lungs;

The

plastic bags inflating in your sunken chest

Disposable

muster a whistling wind in your throat

To

blows through enamel monuments, on your tongue

That

heart beats to the rhythm of turning pages.

Your

trickling blood in your arteries now roars like the

The

sea.

your cells are released from drought and flood with

All

life.

sheet is another layer in reality.

Each

By Carole Wood

paper person

lays to rest.

chalky bones are reconstructed from chapters,

Your

your frame out from a blueprint,

Mapping

scaffolding to stretch your tarpaulin skin,

Using

supporting you with paper splints.

And

and every sentence tickles your eyelids;

Each

moth wings sprouting inky lashes

Paper-thin

That lift to unveil your bright irises blooming.

But the book’s burned and you’re reduced to ashes.

By Connie Heather

23


24

Lee Laurie

deadmen's poems on bunker hills

Scrawling

and bloody like the earth

Cracked

heat rising

Dry

up Rushing

the youngface wild and living

And

me and he in Vigo

And

and blabbering like jays

Lost

buildings in the shadows of the new

Crumbled

vagrant men like rats smiling out

And

In an aisle of my smallish

supermarket, hiding


25

future before us

No

path No

road No

buen camino en el cielo

No

our feet on the cold earth

Only

sea fog behind

Leaving

Eating beer nuts and joking in the sand

By John-Joe Twomey

Photos by Brandon Brady

is the best time of your life

This

it hurts, and

by good people

Surrounded

you are not.

that

bring you joy and laughter

They

you know,

and

Alone,

you will labour

that

never near this.

and

best time of your life

The

a shadow.

casts

you must believe

Now

this reality,

in

go, day to day,

And

impaled

Sweetly

a moment in time.

as

26

Session Music

With its music in mind,


By Naoise Deeney

27

write, because without it air would not

I

as sweet. Because,

Taste

the navy hours when the stars

In

plucked from the sky

Are

the giant's hands, I have a light

By

which to turn to.

With

when I don’t

Because

bones feel foreign in my body

My

my hands don’t ache,

And

ache in the way they should

Don’t

I have chosen to write.

After

cafés, under trees,

In

alleyways on winter days,

In

the backs of cigarette

On

receipts, the order

Boxes,

beneath where I’ve scribbled in

Book

Guinness and a Heineken.

6

write in fragments or wholes,

I

fleeting, spurred-on frenzies

In

collected, calming ebbs.

Or

why i write

I write about you and me

the world that has coiled

And

way around our brains

Its

jasmine or sometimes barbed wire.

Like

write about walls and doors

I

aliens sieging earth,

And

things I’ve never seen

about

things I wish I hadn’t.

Or

write, I write, O I must write.

I

By Katie Farrell

28


our television a British man is baking roadkill

On

a pie. He crimps the edges the way I cling to you,

into

if it is already falling apart at the seams.

as

picture him folded over a rabbit

I

the other side of the road, but I cannot see

on

body, that mangled wad of pulp & fur

its

bone. I cannot bring myself to sculpt

&

devastation. We chose this: watching flour

that

blood cake someone else’s hands in the name

&

sustaining ourselves. We only feel

of

we can imagine. Your fingers scraping

what

my mouth for a trace of something sweet.

round

pie crust. So much wreckage

Golden

the picture our bodies make.

beyond

In Our Country of Insurrection

after Ada Limón

By Jo Bear

Photo by Kevin Oyewole

29

30

apart the pieces,

Pull

from joint from knuckle

Joint

wrist, separate the

From

white, but reddened,

Fine

I bleed blue? Am I

Do

yellow-bellied as I

As

to be? Do I

Claim

enough to

Bleed

stare, every glance

Every

like fire, like a vacuum

Feels

my chest, a hand near

Inside

collarbone reaching up

My

inside my head and pulling

From

my face, pulling

On

Personality Test No. 25

trinkets.


Satisfy what you’re looking for?

Me in on myself.

31

it’s fingers

Burying

the curl of my lip,

In

the folds of my eyelids,

In

every little place it

In

breath is a little death,

Every

think, just a little

I

smile cast my way

Every

a little death, I think,

Is

a little respite,

Just

a little. Just

apart the costume of

Pick

and hairs and spots and

Cells

and lay out my

Such

to dry,

Fingernails

apart the threads

Pick

hold me together,

That

silver linings running

Little

and down my splitting

Up

the contents of my head

Spill

chest and belly, and

And

them from

Organise

to smallest, from

Biggest

to ugliest, give me

Prettiest

final evaluation, overall.

A

me apart and tell me

Pull

I am, for certain.

Who

me apart and tell me

Pull

am I? Who

Can get a hold on.

Release, just a little.

By Conor Henry

I just got them done.

Sides, my seams fit to

Burst.

a lone New England beach

On

june-fog in the distance

With

floating boat house by Kingston

The

Plymouth's round edge in the distance

And

no one but wind and washed kelp to keep me

And

company

sea air Salt

gurgling tide on the rise

A

Twenty's Last

Month


I'm watching cat's paws come in to crow sounds

I've nowhere to be but here for hours

32

Engines puttering across the bay

I was little I wished all these things into being

When

I ever wanted

Everything

beer this afternoon

Cold

go with cold dinner after work

To

in my corridors

Incense

joking Buddhas line the doors

Half

could melt into the sand here,

I

you asked

If

was a day like this

It

roses and weeding in the garden

Deadheading

That I started to come together

By John-Joe Twomey

33


34

the leaves in my hair decay

When

tendrils of green vines unfurl

And

branches filter sunlight’s rays

When

I can no longer scale the boughs

And

I fall with the trees one day

When

we are uprooted from the soil

And

my words stay.

Let

them into the earth.

Root

them blossom

Let

umbrella heads in the rain.

Like

them in the bark of willows:

Engrave

rebellion of the youth.

A

Final Autumn

In my weathered skin and brain,

To greet the dawn,

To live together underground;

Names of those loved and now likely, lost,

35

them in an etched heart,

Encase

will grow wiser with age, not weaker.

That

the drum of nature

Beating

the rhythm of our stopped hearts.

To

By Connie Heather


Photography Credits

Access more of their work via

Instagram (usernames included

below)

Brandon Brady - @brandon.brady99

Brian Bueno - @brianbuenoo &

@brianbuenophotos

Sarah McKernan -

@sarahmckernanphotography

Rachel O'Sullivan - @kiwis_scribblings

Kevin Oyewole - @takenbykevdog

36


Caveat Lector Issue Twelve

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