The Oken Stone Podcast

Recounting

I had the pleasure recently to present some work as part of an exhibition with Rec[ount] in Barcelona. This is a really interesting project looking at how numbers, numbering and accountability influences our lives. Here is a quote from their web-site and a link to read more:“We are a small group of individuals who came together to expand the horizon of artistic and scientific debates around quantification and accountability in society. Through this project we aim to engage artists and academics in an exchange and co-creation around numbers. The project involves a photography prize which aims to guide the lens of photographs around the world towards quantification, its aesthetics, and its effects/affects on humans, their bodies, their relations/lives, but also nature and human’s relations to it. The submissions would then be used as the basis for academic reflections/developments. Following two academic workshops involving a selected group of scholars working at the crossroads of art and accounting/quantification we aim to publish an edited volume which would include prints of selected photographic submissions and academic contributions/reflections.This is an invitation to think about how our lives are changing due to the rising capacity and urge to quantify. Below are some of the questions for which we search “fresh” answers. What accounts do we create (or forget to create) as we quantify? What practices have emerged or vanished as a result of quantification? What intended and not intended consequences it brings about? What controversies and difficulties lie under the apparent rationality of this process?”Link to the Rec[ount] website~~~~~~~~I made a collaborative performance with the fabulous violinist Olvido Lanza, along with three of the Rec[ount] team. Thanks so much to Wafa and Afshin for looking after me and offering this inspiring opportunity.The poems here were written before, during and after my visit to El Clot district of Barcelona, also known as Clot De La Mel - Hole Of Honey. It was a district of vegetable growing and beehives before it became absorbed into the city of Barcelona.Here are my words for the recording on this podcast:~~~~~~~~~~~~~Re-Counting(some words for Spring)Line of SightAt the greyhound track verdantParakeets turn over leaves with hookedbeaks beside an ocean of concretesmoothed, cast in sweeping contoursthat seal in the tracks, holding fasta history of sleek beasts in line of sight,coursing in sinuous ripples of drivenjaws. Short lives of obedience andspeed. Named and valued, brushed,dieted and measured. Each racea gauge of days remaining. Nowthe race itself has been retired,its bounding oval put down in asphaltfor joggers, bladers and youths totest their metal, recreate anepic battle for validation.A Day With HelmutWoke to a day from adream of relationships,humans in bonds ambiguouswith intentions unclear.Moved from that into calmamid measured conversations,thoughts of future journeys,biscuits and coffee.This followed by lion’s legson a table round,sheep’s fleece nurseryrhymes, red squirrelacrobatical astonishmentsand then an adder atthe door in a compressedess, zigzagged and warmingin the sun of Spring’stime - finding the rightbody heat for hunting mice.StainedHer face of stainedglass hungimperiouslylike achandelier,bodyshining with thelight of self,illuminating heracolytes withpearls andinsights,daughter fromdynasticfragility,clothed in crystalsheavy,opaque andbeautiful.Hung,an atmosphericstirring -lostto a room of fear.All venturesshrivel and slipbehind and within,stains spreading outwardsfrom vacuous innardsthe lady of the limpshines darkly herglass greasy fingersheard and not seenturning the latch,letting herself outback wards offa spell of joining.Enchanté Mademoiselle,and adieu.Growing Into The DaySunlight through new beech leavesChiff Chaff fresh in fromthe South alreadywith eggs to hatch howthe search accelerates fromdormant to decorouspendulant flowers filledwith insects vibrate incolours, flood my thoughtsand sleeping passions hearthe fall of rain upon foliageand its consumptionby thirsty earth busyfeeding trees thatopen their fingers andstretch their armscaught I am inwondermentfeel my own walkingroots luxuriate infecundity.PlummetGannets diving intotranslucent green wavesoff the shore on Salt Pans Roadmob and cut the air foldshut, dropping scissor-formpierce the sea paff paffpaffpaff paffpaffSwim unseen through glassywater snaps shuttheir beak blades caughtthe silvering scaly dartspulled up beyond the sea’s skininto roistering May airshard-back gulletted passout of ken, from all knowledgeflown to Ailsa Craig,rock of ages, giant’s head,gone to feed the fledgelingfishers.PalmicThere’s a hole in my heart line,a palmic interventionordemonster able fissurepinned perhapspierced possiblyrecounting a puncture,the bursting of a balloonI popped sometime past a bangingof the door toa room withinwithin whichI fear to enter andon enteringI fear to seethe head upon whichmy hair is growingand the column of lightthat fills me,shining through a windowin my sole.HandsHolding the hand of hope,walking beneath the sameumber el a,saying out loudsaying out loudfor hope to hear,speaking of,allowing,conceiving andin such conceptionlook outwards, away fromdeceiving ordeception imaginethe shape of today inthe clothes of celebration.Having two hands,who holds the other?ChancyThe thing waited formakes no promises.The thing unlooked formakes no apology.The thing expectedcan still surprise.Pick a card and wonderwas it waiting there for you?Carefully considerits placement as a veto,slipped amongst the mundanewhen you looked the other way;palmed and flippedto play the trick;cut played and dealtto buy or stick,the meaning lostin cards counting.I’ll flush and fold,my hearts pounding.FordingEating out with friends in the crashingrain of a street, red canopy runningwith water, waiters crossing through a streamof cars to carry our dishes, their voyagesupon turbulent seas most noble inpursuit of satiation.Swifts ride upon upper airs withsqueals of delight, pigeons fluff andburble around roof tops andbaker’s shops. Dog s**t fresh along an alleyreeks of wildness and darker nature,smells of verdure creeping at pavementlevel, the hills surrounding wait forthis city to return to earth. Childrenin an unseen yard are tumultuous,growing visible after rain, shapes arisingin materiality conjoined through soundto fill the air.KneesBought some bees boxedin a yellow plastic crate,fore-legs extended out -insectivorous inmates -begging water, nectar ora hollowed place safefrom clawed paws androdent dentures.The queen rode pillionwith six maids attendant;her fertile abdomen filledwith generational ganymetes.Long Live The Queen!Tipped them in furredcascade into a hive kneltto receive a single sting uponthe larynxblesséd voice box, from whoseinhibitious utterancesI would be free.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`(Words and drawing - ©Alex Rigg 2026)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Live at Knockengorroch Festival 2026

3w ago00:36:37Tap to summarize

This is a live recording made by the very wonderful Alasdair who creates such a magic sound in The Longhouse. It brings you the whole thing, warts and all. Although you will have to use your imagination to see the warts.Thanks also to Nick Jenkins and Katch Holmes for inviting us to be part of the event.This performance was presented at Knockengorroch Festival in Galloway in May 2026. We showed The Sailmaker’s Palm in The Longhouse, a very atmospheric and intimate space by the banks of the river Deugh. This was our forth appearance at the festival in as many years, and great fun. Thanks to the marvellous Oceanallover team, and for those of you that couldn’t be there - we missed you!Dance - Suzi Cunningham, Aaron Jeffrey, Dylan Read and Rosamund McCormac.Music - Joey Sanderson (Jellobass & vocals), Richie Merchant (brass and charango), Nick Jenkins (fiddle), Emma Gillespie (Found sounds & vocals) and Fiona Stephen (violin).Narration, direction and design - Alex RiggThe festival has been running since 1998. I was there that year, playing with Two Left Feet ceilidh band. It continues to be a great gathering of open-minded and happy people. Both of my sons bring their music to the festival with their bands Muckle Spree and Samson Sounds.Link to Knockengorroch - festival website~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~On another historical note, I have a long-standing relationship with The Wickerman Music Festival which was also a big deal for the region. Trevor Leat (of Two Left Feet fame) and myself built the fire-giant for the festival every year from 2002 until it finished in 2014. Trevor is a consummate willow sculptor as well as musician.The Wickerman Festival reached an audience of eighteen thousand people and we burned the sculpture each year at midnight on Saturday. We had the fire down to a fine art, albeit with the very basic technology of straw, willow and a lighter. A month of work burned in about thirty minutes. It was really exhilarating!!Link to The Wickerman Music Festival - Wikipedia entryI am not an avid festival-goer and slightly intimidated by large groups of people when mingling as a member of the crowd. However, I have very much enjoyed all of my experiences on the Galloway festival scene, including the very unique Nithraid which will be happening on August the 15th this year and will once again feature Oceanallover leading the progress of the Salty Coo.You can read more about the festival here:Link to Nithraid - festival websiteOceanallover have been part of many festivals and celebrations in Dumfries and Galloway over the thirty years that I have been based here. This next picture show Liz Rankin as Catherine the Great in a project that I made with Mark Zygadlo and Ian Smith called ‘ The Lost Supper’. In this particular version we performed in the snow outside The Stove Network, Dumfries as part of The Big Burns Supper in 2013.Nithraid in Dumfries will be the next chance for you so see my performance work , followed by an appearance at the Pianodrome , Edinburgh on August the 20th.Link to the Pianodrome websiteWe will also be performing as part of the Findhorn Bay Festival in October this year.Link to The Finhorn Bay Festival website~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~My new collaborative project Didar -The Encounter will be opening at Summerhall in October. I’ll write more about this soon, but here is an image to give you a flavour of the work. The photograph was taken by Xeder and we were working with Danna Sim.This project is a collaboration with Xeder, Danna Sim, Topaz Pauls, Suzi Cunningham and Bram E Geiben.Link to the Summerhall website~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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March Winds

Apr 600:21:04Tap to summarize

Writing during the drifting of our planet in its relationship to the sun; moving through the equinox from winter into spring. A homage to the land journeys of amphibians everywhere. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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February 2026

Feb 1500:06:48Tap to summarize

Written and recorded on Valentine's day, 2026 This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Brother Mother

Dec 2800:08:54Tap to summarize

Brother Mother - Five poems for Yule Tide This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Carcere (Prison)

Nov 1200:12:02Tap to summarize

I went to Napoli recently to continue working on a collaboration with Iranian photographer Xeder. We began our project in Edinburgh in 2024 and have since passed through St Veran in the south of France arriving on Ischia and then Vomero in Naples. Our sessions in Italy were strongly coloured by visits to the National Art Gallery to look at paintings by Caravaggio and many religious epics. Our work was also flavoured by the haunted streets of Pompeii, and by the presence of a large octopus from the local market.Altogether a very dynamic and dramatic time.So here are four pieces of writing reflecting on those experiences, alongside a sound recording made whilst walking through the market of Montesanto, and a drawing of an octopus in the Greek style.~~~~Surgery’s DoorDragons at the door holdfast and mark their terra-torialearth, grip the handle hereto follow serpentine ways,opens pages of sinuousthought, summons viscous tearstraces the path of thoughts pastuntil their forms writhe and slideupon vellum voluptuous,nails black claws, skin sheathed,pearlescent, inviting;questions hiss, gaping -teeth a promissory note I owethe bearer of this fleshan invitation shouldyou accept a change madethat cannot be a step inany way because there areno feet the journey abeginning, middle and an end.~~~~~~~~~~~Naples StreetEating sweet pastries and baba, the smell offish heavy around us; scooters and menwith thick arms and fingers revvv orshout their engines running past girlswith thicker lips glossed seriouslyshiny black hair tossed back laughwith friends where shellfish snap,bubbling in shallow trays of brineonly minutes away from boilingshare their final moments withindomitable lobsters so very aliveuntil dead like all here in this morning’spescatarian tableau vivantall scales and sales.~~~~~~~~~Road Side ShrineBlue leaves and blossoms spreadthrough a ceramic floor, opening undera lace of white plaster dust and broken glass.Sculptures soften, slide quietlyfrom pedestals and leave.Tissues and condom packets line up at the window’sledge looking out towards the Mediterranean Seawhere pleasure boats loiter and roar.Along the road dogs are walked atlead’s length but never here to wherethe Gods have fucked and then fucked off.A green cupola collects light and sound,sending them inwards and downwards tofall upon the supplicants, miraculous andfull of hope, kneeling in reveriebeneath an empty niche, a note on thewall written with ash or scratched withpumice wishes most sincerely that they willforgive this little absence, this departurefrom the sacred, from shared sufferings,and have the very best of days.~~~~~~KrakenatePale blue eye sees sure as I seeeights and creels and cold green stories.Tentacled dance splits the bivalves;opens their hearts, survival rivals.Succertronic pneumaticals;your beak bites hard, brain empirical.Wrap your arms round my pseudo palps;coloured cuticle psycho pomps.Creel caught dead drop octopodus;molluscula cephalopod.Death is for babies, senescence;love happens once, camouflaged wants.Ink and swim sugar, poisonous arts;too sexy by far, eight point star.From abyssal depths to shallow shoresyour mantle cavity tempts and allures.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~AR 2025Photography by Xeder:https://mehrphoto.wordpress.com/about/ This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Poems During The Fall Of Leaves

Oct 700:12:03Tap to summarize

This is a small collection of poems written over the last few weeks. Mostly they were written at about midnight from my room upstairs, facing East and listening to the sounds outside. The mood is an odd mixture of optimism, doubt and acceptance peculiar to that stage in my day, and this stage of my life.There may be a connection to the arrival and departure of the equinox and to Samhain. Equal levels of lightness and darkness and a descent into winter.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`Ginger TomMet a dead cat sleepingin my dreams yeowledthrough grizzled mouthshouted a warning insilence broken bythe clamour of memoryringing out the changesmeasured today bytomorrow’s standardscalled out the pastto stand trial foundit guilty as chargedhung it by its historiesand left it swingingstark reminderof naked truths turnedover and sankinto pillows soft, sleptlike the dead, awoke withclaw marks on my chest.~~~~VoicedHeard some words, a tune,caught the driftgot a sensesniffed the airread the ashes scatteredhair unwashed and mattedmumbling, singing somethingpasses through the unlit archessticky palmed and cold onthe last legs of love,unshaven shufflingdrink this in remembrance ofwe, who were a wholelot more to be said butthe vocal chord is cut,the birth of sense stilled.Sparrows gossip in the ivy,shadows long out anddeepen, the song fades.~~~~Singing BirdA song thrush speckled breastand sharp brown legs lyingtarmacadam dead beneaththe cooperative shop windowkilled by reflectivefacets and vigorous flight.Did I believe my eyes ordeceive them withprecognition?In the moment of impact,flying intoyour arms my vision shattered,breaking the neck ofspeeding cupid, your frozenstare glazed like the picture of a sticky bunglued to the glass,bleached, yellowedand breathless.SagSkin the biggest organ aleather sac that holdstightly to the formaletiquette of muscularityis the first to slip atsight of the door posts,needing propped andstrapped and padded througheach day in an apoplexyof wrinkled disdaingood god put it away orat the very least rubsomething on it to fillthe cracks someone shouldreally re-inflate your balloonstretch your drum-skintighten your tarpaulin darling.~~~~ConcussionAnd then a knife passesthrough life, or a flame acrossthe fingers boils the blood ofcomprehension, a blow frombehind, unseen nor heard uponyour nape at skull’s base breaksconcentration wraps smartlyupon the door, suchthat all breaks, all will crumble,reason to gibber slidesinside the cateracted mudslide of certainties slipped,snapped the ligament thatbinds bone to b******t,sits you down suddenly, leansagainst the wall, breathes out,arms limp, eyes wide, allcreation before you in a paradeof colours and forms most wondrous.~~~~LossIn your hand the secateurspoised to pruneselect a limblocate the budassume the angledescend the jawsmeet cambial resistancesqueezesnipclear blood flowsmomentarily, tearsof severancepaid in homageto extremitiesfive years that oneleaf flowers and fruitI will miss youand from this cutdiverge upon another path.~~~~ParchedRain in the dark fallingunseen but heard, itsdescent illustrated byimpact, splashing uponthe house and the reachof grasses and trees thatjoin here with eternityin green shade. Memoriesare playing between thedrops like moths tiltingand fluttering, pushedaside by displaced air aswater barges in to this moment,travelling down out of the sky,streaking earthward, calledhome by mother oceanlest the sea become too saltyand the rocks too dry.~~~~ar 2025~~~~~~~~~Music, words and artwork - ©alexrigg2025 This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Ferry

Sep 2400:07:44Tap to summarize

Fat rainbow sitting above a yawl, ghost of a herring silver beneath infra and ultra angular stacks and cliffs of Caithness the sun turns corners on calm days, rides over the tops when North and East are big in the sky; stone chat, grey wagtail corvids cloaked patrol the edges where thrift and cropped grass hold tight with rooted toes. In the sea tall wing giants wave their circular greetings caught in the downwards slant of an afternoon sun that burns through the speeding clouds.Badly bitten on the hand finger and bone cut through - sailing into Stromness on the Hamnavoe turned savage, door jaws snapping shut. St. John’s Head glowered over, grey glittering eyes under brow beaten cliffs. Stitched in the Balfour to hold things,bring things together, put them in place. Fear runs back and forth along the balcony of vertiginous imaginings, the future a precipice. Where is the way down? Alongside, above the Black Craig a fulmar lifts up in a nascent Westerly gale, rising beside me on the cliff top. Flight a joy, ascent a living thrill, descent a cascading magic. So could my heart fly, if I release it from the fences and enclosures of expectation and doubt. Silver pools of light are painting grey blue the seas, the horizon curves, the sky is mackerelled, I am beside myself.How long can a wall stand for, and what? A separation and dividing, the outside from the in. I built a wall forty years ago to keep the weather off my flowers, break the wind so what is the separation there? My skin perhaps, or years that could be seen to intervene, when really it has been my absence that was note worthy, the stones unpolished by my gaze are glazed by lichen and salt spray, stroked, bars and beams of light escaping from the horizon, casting low in reds and ochres paint the stones and bring stone shadows hiding slaters and periwigs where they bide, mandibles cutting through the roots of sedum and salix planted with optimism and ebullience by my fingers, releasing them into the cycles of tidal decay and the slow arrival of the sea at my door. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Menuett

Sep 300:03:47Tap to summarize

Saint VeraudMy HouseThe window, cracked admits sounds of the out, of night. Rain accumulating through grass and soil, running down into the cut of the burn. An aeroplane sings in darkness, thirty thousand steps upwards into the sky, five hundred miles each hour. The fox of last week has stopped screaming and lies now asleep for an eternity upon the metalled road. Rosebay Willow Herb invades my dreams, purple lances and drifts of feathered seeds. At this hour the day falls with question, may never arise from its bed, all is still and calm save for the shrew in avid pursuit of earthen worms.Afshin’s HouseA green bird laugh echoes out over a river of cicadas and the metallic progress of vehicles some way below. Pigeons call from limestone caves to walkers on the Chemin, the yellow route, moving North. The day’s heat is building underneath oak trees old, juniper, pine. Blocks of stone, standing and fallen everywhere. Along the trail small piles of fox scat purple with damsons. Air fills the landscape. Small saplings hold up their arms in optimism through dry, dry grass and thyme. Everywhere the smell of herbs.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ar 2025~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Thanks to Dafne Kritharas and Paul Barreyre for beautiful voices and guitar. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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Keeping Time

Aug 1100:10:15Tap to summarize

These poems were written in response to some dreams that all happened in the same week. Some of the dreams were waking dreams or reveries experienced in odd circumstances, some were compelling enough to wake me up at night.I love having dreams, it seems to me that the unconscious state is such a vital part of our lives and we can learn so much about ourselves by paying attention to what is being offered at these times. You may or may not agree with psycho-analytical or spiritual interpretations of dreams, but it is fairly certain that they embody a part of us that is different from our conscious mind. I would like to know more about that part.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Keeping TimeWent to visit,not the first time,kept it brief andsupra fiscial;cut the grass,raked my brainsremembering orlooking for rememberiesnever mine to loose.Cut the hedgebreath is filled with Cypresusland of dreams.Saw where you layat the finish of eachcyclenow, the house stands exhaustedwaitingfor both of us to leaveI leftthe clocks wound to countthe passing of you.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`By the SureHer hand on his chestplaceda sentence,words unheardin his hurry to digressfrom future structuresracedbeside guarded watersleaving no foot unturnedparted from the pathbeneath a burning bridgeoutpacedpursuit imaginedto swim in paranoid waterswhose swerving pulldrowns all ambitionchasteand washed cleanof all desires savethe one who leaveshere.~~~~~~~~~~~`The HuntSewing closed a gutted fishstuffed and cookedwhilst carrion gorge and bickercrows and rooksthrough soiled darkness come wolves or youthto hunt packedgrinding their teeth on polished stonestake abackintention veiled or slumberingarisesclimbs the walls naked and hiddendisguisingthe meaning of this day’s closingangled downlooks upon a distant surfacethe world roundcurves beneath our soft footed soulsin ambushday breaks upon the human heart’sloving touch.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~PuddingAfter the threshing and crashingof stones there isa time to be calmed,bathed in stillnesswithout motionand listen to, harken unto,hearthe roaring of my heartheld in its bony cagearterial arms spread widegrasp the bars andpant in rhythmic wantthe meter or weightof bewilderment, or whatbe wilder meantwhilst the heart leaksfrom passion’s gourdand I am a desertin the oasis of understandingor a dessert in the halls of the just.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`ar 2025 This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit theokenstone.substack.com/subscribe

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All episodes

Recounting

Live at Knockengorroch Festival 2026

March Winds

February 2026

Brother Mother

Carcere (Prison)

Poems During The Fall Of Leaves

Ferry

Menuett

Keeping Time