Max Ryan performs with the following musicians at various festivals and events: Cleis Pearce on violin, Kishore Ryan on drums and percussion, Kieran Ryan on electric guitar, Kavisha Mazzella on guitar and accordion, Pin Rada on saurangi.....
Influences
Coleridge, Yeats, Emily Dickenson, Shiki, Jack Gilbert, Kabir, Rumi, Kid Sam, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Parveen Sultana, Cleis Pearce, Sri Bhalwant Rai Bhatt, Nisagadatta Maharaj, Arvo Part, Richard Clemens, Erik Satie, John Bird.
Sounds Like
from Max's poetry book "Rainswayed Night"
*Evening Storm*
The storm has found us now. .
Black limbs of banksia .
splay across our tent, .
flung up on lightning's lash. . .
You and I are here inside, .
a candle flame between us. .
Listen, out on the ridge .
the wail of she–oaks .
thrums the wind's long strings. . .
On the beach below, the ocean .
folds an octave down .
in caverns of rolling thunder. . .
A candle flame, cool static .
of your skin, your face, .
your flickering hair. . .
The deep chord of our limbs, .
the rain, the sway of the tide. .
The one cry between us .
and your breath breaks into mine. . .
Five Beggars
Light from a street lamp glances
past the curtain to a blistered wall
of my hotel room. A man's voice
trumpets out of an alleyway:
Ram, Ram, Ram.
His cry fades as I fall
into a dream of five blind beggars.
The crowd parts as they wind through city back streets,
hurling their voices higher and higher, swinging their heads
from side to side. I'm there, caught in the rhythms
that thrash through their bodies. I know their song:
this world is not real, this world is not my home.
I stare into their faces, sing out their words till I spin
on glazed white moons of their eyes.
Suddenly, I have hold of the last beggar. Voices race
over the clash of bells. My feet move faster. I try
but can't let go. My voice unravels from their chorus
into a long shrill cry.
I wake before dawn, hold the creaky railing
down to the dim-lit street. Outside a tea shop, a man
stoops to part a hessian curtain. A dog barks
as I pass a huddle of blanket bodies.
A hiss of cymbals, voices grow louder.
Five blind beggars sway out of the night,
coming straight towards me.
Max Ryan was born in Australia and lived a for a long time in India, then he came back. He lives in a little wooden cottage by the sea where he writes poetry. You can write to Max by email and enquire about his book "Rainswayed Night" and the collaboration CD of music and poetry by Max and violinist Cleis Pearce, "White Cow". This is his email address: maxpoetry@hotmail.com
Max and friends. We are seeking your finest works for the MEMORY Video Poetry Project. Submissions close on February 28, 2010. Please see our blog for submission guidelines
dear Max, how are you ? we are thinking of youy!xxx KAvisha and Andy and Bella and Kiki too... reading chinese buddhist poets" The Clouds should know me by now"
hey Max its catchy in the last few days I have been making some actual paintings ! all those poems must be after all that rain...when are you coming down?love to you from Andy and Kavisha
hiya max, well sure if you find yourself in this neck of the woods you would be more than welcome to grace us with your words. i will probbably be sending a group type invite again sorry if this piss you off, i just want to build the night up a bit and spread the word. i hope this msg finds you in good spirits, and you have much inspiration at present.
Nice surprise, nice friendly Tassie publications and all. Love to tread the boards and stir some coffee with you..I will be down in BB for the Writers Fest in August, so see you then if not before.
great to have coffee with you... "Gautama was a rebel he cut his long blonde hair snuck out of the palace at midnigfht on his tryusty white mare..." love Kavisha
I reach across Touch the one tear on your face Waters are raging Show me your fear Let me explain I'll be the sun The one who dries the rain
Our little place in the world The center of the universe Waters are raging You quench my thirst In our little place in the world You need me You feed me In our little place in the world Love comes first
Move your head Rest against my chest Fires are burning I feel your pulse Beating in my breast I am a feather At the bottom of a nest
Our little place in the world The center of the universe Fires are burning The sun's about to burst In our little place in the world You need me You feed me In our little place in the world Love comes first
We open our eyes I recognize your face Stars are spinning I know you From another time and place We are a spark Moving in and out of space
Our little place in the world The center of the universe Waters are raging Fires are burning Stars are spinning The sun's about to burst In our little place in the world You need me You feed me In our little place in the world Love comes first
I just want to keep you posted on what's going on this way. (Please click on the pictures below. )
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.. .. ..Who's next in the "5 Minutes, 5 Questions With..." series? Thomas Overton - Murder With a Deadly Weapon
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"Stars? We're made of stars? Is Ziggy?" Ivy was star struck.
"Are you made of stars, Professor Angelicus?" asked Zak. "Is Quantia?"
"Absolutely. Nothing more and nothing less," the professor affirmed. "The iron in your blood, the calcium in your bones...everything. Even the tiniest drop of water shining on a spider's web is stardust and starlight. All living things are related. We're all brothers and sisters."
He pointed out toward the silent brilliance in space, his large eyes clear and luminescent. "We were all created in the intergalactic clouds that came from the first great breath of life. Some call it the Essence of God."
Ziggy wagged his tail and his eyes sparkled. He understood what the professor was saying...
