Ronna Bloom
Ronna Bloom is the author of four books of poetry, most recently, Permiso, (Pedlar Press, 2009.) Her poems have been translated into Spanish and Bangla, and broadcast on CBC Radio. Ronna works as a teacher of writing and as a psychotherapist. She has led workshops across Canada and abroad, and is currently Poet in Community at the University of Toronto. Tree House, a CD of poetry and piano, with jazz musician Peter Dick, will be released in November 2009. Please see www.ronnabloom.com
Tree House
From this distance, there is no longing.
The sweetheart does not reside within,
not yet rooted enough to be missed.
From this distance, it is theoretical love.
The details not yet nailed down, not yet
floorboards, doorways.
I can conjure the bed.
A solid low frame. Pine.
For sure, the Group of Seven prints:
forests on a wall painted autumn red.
While outside, full summer goes on
into the green ravine.
"I'm in a tree house," I said.
Never rested so lightly, so high up,
so delicately. Never so at home
in a tree, never even climbed one.
By deign of imagination and a stranger,
and the willingness to follow this divining rod
inside my chest, managed to land here,
lie down and continue.
The Leash
1.
I remove my watch
sneak peeks at the wrists of others.
2.
Ride out to the city limits,
plan where I'll get tired.
3.
Oh wild one, drinking
coffee at 10pm.
You feel leashless --
but even the word leashless has a leash in it.
4.
How far might you go if you finally
stop stopping?
5.
This Phrase Letting Go
turns up in the Tarot deck image of maidens
flinging themselves from a cliff,
and every time, a gong goes in my head
and my eyes get glassy or watery as yesterday
when I walked into the park after the long
bike ride west, through the congested city,
through the early peaceful stinky garbage-day streets
past the apartments condos houses I almost
lived in, the women wearing patent leather underwear
chic in one neighbourhood, treacherous in the next.
After drinking half a coffee and carrying the rest
I walked into the park, through the gates
I'd never entered, like a guest in another city,
felt the strain in my eyes
and took off my glasses. Everything went soft
including my soul, how clearly I saw the leaves
the colours, blurry, almost black in their green.
from Permiso, (Pedlar Press, 2009)
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Ten years ago we worked together at Chapters, and here we are in 2007, both of us with first books published this year. Aside from feeling I'm getting on a bit, I remember a poem of yours where you talk about carrying around The Collected Works of Billy the Kid on your back as though "an extra muscle"; did it help inspire this collection about another historical figure?
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