Ronna Bloom

Jul 19, 2024 | brickmag.com | Ronna Bloom |Victoria Amelina |Grace Mahoney |Thomas Larson

The day I discover I’ve been catfished, I walk into the local library because I don’t know where to put myself. I am bewildered. Wander among the books. A white police officer is talking to a Black security guard. On my way out, I hear him ask, “Do you want to file a criminal charge?” I don’t hear the answer. It’s teeming with rain as I walk up Bathurst Street, loud with cars. A bus splashes, and I jump out of the way. A man chuckles behind me, and I jump again, but this time a yell comes out.

Nov 15, 2023 | tnq.ca | Ronna Bloom

“That hat has a lot of history!” he calls out from the line at the V’ahavta van across the street. “That path?” I point to the sidewalk on which I’m walking. “That hat!!” He says pointing to his head. “Beautiful!”I smile full on and so does he. Then he goes back to the queue of men waiting for something hot to drink and a plastic bag of clothes that they have in the van. V’ahavta is a Hebrew word meaning and I loved you. I remembered it from the prayer.

Sep 26, 2023 | tnq.ca | Ronna Bloom

Usually I have a novel, a few poetry books, and some nonfiction around my bed. I like to move between them. The novel:Five Little Indians by Michelle Good. This is a novel about five Indigenous children who were sent to a residential school, what happens to them when they are little, and when they grow up. It is crushing and heartbreaking and full of compassion and love.

Aug 23, 2023 | wlupress.wlu.ca | Ronna Bloom |Phil Hall

Sep 19 Wychwood TPL, Program Room Book Launch:"A Possible Trust" by Ronna Bloom See All Events With compassion, humour and sharp-eyed irreverence, Ronna Bloom's work has made a significant impact on Canadian poetry. is selected from her work to date. Bloom writes concisely of the precarious, the ephemeral, the epic, and of the fragility and determination of people in daily life and extraordinary health crises.

Jul 24, 2023 | tnq.ca | Ronna Bloom

Nevertheless, I kept scrolling. For the most part, the catalogue of faces continued, and I had the appearance of choosing. The illusion of poking a finger at what appeared in the app, and saying, you, I’ll look at you. These were men I was poking my finger at. Men who barely opened their eyes for the camera, some wore no shirts. Many had odd shaped heads. Was I becoming superficial or was the dating app a host of weirdnesses? Some wrote nothing in their profile but “man” as though that was enough.