Review: The Art of Washing What You Can’t Touch by Ewen Glass
There are few writers who can make loss funny, do it well in a way that sticks to the inside of the brain like a welcome neuro-film of reprieve from a world so overladen with terrifically morose accounts of heartbreak that one’s scared to crack open a book these days for fear of messing up their mascara. Ewen Glass has a new collection out called The Art of Washing What You Can’t Touch, and it’s imbued with a sense of good-natured humor that I’d like to devote this entire opening paragraph to. In his poem “Placing in a competition”, Glass juggles the pivotal last moment of seeing his father with Scottish setting, choosing to place the absurd comfortably in context with family. “Placing” is capable, erudite, offers the option of a nostalgia either just missed or retroactively remembered next to the poignant in lines like
“is it right then that saying, / parents become children? / There was a rainbow so low / across the loch I thought / it was a seaside attraction.”
We needed a rainbow for that particular goodbye.
Each piece in his collection contains the unexpected variable that’s so obviously paramount to getting good prose poetry just right for the reader. In “Self-Care”, Glass is generous with his surprises, ricochets from the downright lyrical…
(“the substance of stars…”)
to the colloquial…
(“And my partner calls me dramatic,”)
…in a matter of six lines and a handful of beats.
This not only speaks to Glass’s level of craftsmanship, but it foretells a writer who has a keen, intelligent grasp on the inner-workings of a well-laid line.
His sentences trap the reader in the nest of these small, oftentimes slightly mad scenarios, providing us sanctuary for a few seconds from bare-knuckled reality; in its place, Glass gives us generous helpings of parody–such as “The Cinema Experience Is Here To Stay”–and cut-glass wit, replete with requisite lilt–as so delightfully found in “Get O My Lawn & While You’re Doing So Don’t Judge Me”.
In The Art of Washing What You Can’t Touch, you’ll find earthy exteriors and a heartbeat purified, poured, and held at a certain angle to the light. You’ll examine its pulp of previously felt pain and recognize the collection for what it is: a funny valentine equally portioned into the type of slice-of-life narratives that sing of the due sadness and strength of a man courageous enough to write about it.