A poet, a mystic, and a musician walk into a bar. No, they really do. Only, it’s Shane Hollands in each case, moving from one affectation to another, all within a single poem. Hollands is on something more than form. His poetry is abuzz with whisky and caffeine. And the fix is a contagion. The reader follows the verse into murky pubs, backs of cars, into the checkout of a Grey Lynn Foodtown. There is a grandiosity to his reach, counterweighted by the local and colloquial. We are served split-screens of celestial apparitions with the atomic, mythical opus with the simple tall-tale, global village then Motueka.
Shane Hollands is very Beat. But his voice sits comfortably within the New Zealand milieu. Whether in ‘Rotovegas’ or ‘Dorkland’, Shane has a way of importing his Beat energy, without it seeming forced. This is Kiwi bloke, meets Tom Waits. The geography is familiar, right down to the time-honoured cafés. We are on a trip. Shall we say we are tripping? We are on a sort of multisensory escapade, subject to the experiential blendings of a Synesthete. There is the ‘wild lonely road’, ‘the gnarl of sombre landscapes’. Hollands’ visual domain is pegged to emotion. It is atmospheric. There are times when you can smell the furniture, taste the music. There’s a pervasive tenebrosity, a wonderful grunginess about much of it. And there are lines that cut:
‘I wouldn’t give you a cigarette
unless you were on fire’
Hollands’ world has the lick of panpsychicism – His oceans are living, his storms are ‘wild with intent’. But the intentions of the poet take centre stage – chasing dreams, chasing love, chasing ecstatic lunacy, the free-range bliss that is ‘card-less / wallet-less and anonymous’. The result is feverish poetry. It rambles, it rages, but it is charming. There are hits from his ‘wordcore’ band, Freaky Meat, and there are quieter, more contemplative poems:
‘yet there were moments of beauty
when I sat on stone circles
watched you roll in perfect curls
on that wooden deck
I listened to you
This is work of a performer, but it defies the conventions of commonplace, and often didactic, spoken-word. Yes, Hollands’ poetry ‘wants to beat on your poetry’, and ‘would like to kick your poetry’s assonance’.
Reviewed by Elizabeth Morton
The atomic composition of the seeming solid
by Shane Hollands
Published by The Back Shed Press