Another New Review of the Blood Pudding Press chapbook, They Talk About Death

Happy darkly delicious September!

This month is starting off with a wonderfully detailed new review by Jennifer MacBain-Stephens, of the latest Blood Pudding Press poetry chapbook, "They Talk About Death" by Alessandra Bava. 

Below are some lines from the review - and you may read the whole review within the new Infoxicated Corner, here - http://www.thethepoetry.com/category/infoxicated-corner/

And then if you are compelled to read all 13 poems from within the chapbook, it can be purchased from the Blood Pudding Press shop here - http://www.etsy.com/shop/BloodPuddingPress

"Lives cut short by drugs, suicide, illness, and murder – these artists and writers inspire Bava’s work. In this chapbook, assembled and handmade by editor and publisher Juliet Cook, ghosts requite and haunt red-walled Parisian cafes, New York street corners, and dark, succulent gardens."

and

"Bava’s muses struggled throughout life to find their place and, whether through confessional poetry or offending critics, Bava portrays this glorious, marginalized group (some of them only achieving prominence postmortem,) in all of their eccentric and damaged glory.

In the titular, opening poem, the scene of a salon is staged. Writers talk and sip absinthe; as “Sylvia talks of her first attempt. Anne [Sexton] listens attentively…” the scene becomes almost like a portrayal of two school girls discussing a crush – words such as “sweet,” “infectious laugh,” and “loving,” convey an innocent intimacy; discussing death feels like looking for the shape of a friend in the dark at a sleepover."

and

"The cover art, by Erin Wells, is eerily reminiscent of Sylvia’s famous blond curls. These curls, however, fall over a horse skull, such an apropos illustration for this collection – the whimsical carousel ride of childhood juxtaposed with the ominous horse skull, to somewhat terrifying effect. We are reminded that, though childhood ends eventually, these beasts continue to gallop in a circle forever, reaching up towards heaven and down towards hell, keeping all riders in a state of limbo. Perhaps the resurrected ghosts of these artists and writers find themselves locked into similar patterns: Sylvia, for example, so gregarious and lovely, almost child-like herself in so many photos, gave life and conformist roles a shot, but in the end, her own darkness was the all-consuming role."