Written and recorded on Valentine's day, 2026

Brother Mother - Five poems for Yule Tide

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.

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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.

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Naples Street

Eating 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.

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Road Side Shrine

Blue 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.

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Krakenate

Pale 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.

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AR 2025

Photography by Xeder:

https://mehrphoto.wordpress.com/about/

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.

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Ginger Tom

Met 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.

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Voiced

Heard 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.

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Singing Bird

A 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.

Sag

Skin 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.

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Concussion

And 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.

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Loss

In 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.

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Parched

Rain 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.

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ar 2025

~~~~~~~~~Music, words and artwork - ©alexrigg2025

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.

Saint Veraud

My House

The 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 House

A 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.

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Thanks to Dafne Kritharas and Paul Barreyre for beautiful voices and guitar.

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.

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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

Hibernation

I crawled under the shed

amongst dust and stones

why I was there is not important

belly to the ground, back to timber joists

next to my head a nest

badly made of hay and leaves

dragged there

during a frozen time

there too within its bed

a sleeping badger

sleeping for so long

through ice and summers

seven years since

we met in January -

you had your arm

around a chicken

curled together in the coup

looked up at me and sighed,

so warm, such bounty and warmth,

looked down at the chicken

then ran,

a two toned bear across frosted fields,

too cold to be awake

and so you came back

tucked a bed under your arm

and went to sleep.

Here we find ourselves,

you and I,

under the shed;

I am alive

and you are dead.

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ar 2025

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