In poetry,

as long as I'm aware,

as far as I think I handle the situation,

I am an imposter,

an actor,

taking up positions,

acting out the roles of the script

which opens on me,

myself unbeknownst, unforeseen,

surprise by surprise, image after image,

as my my pen, hurled

by the almost automatic motions of the hand,

shows me,

letter by letter,

word by word,

sentence by sentence,

poem by poem

a kind of reasoning

that is beyond me,

but, in a Jungian way,

captures an importance,

which, albeit resting in the beyond,

rises from within myself,

so well pondered by Gaston Bachelard

in The Poetics of Space

- and in this manner

I am a scout of depths and widths,

sweeping down the wormholes of physics & dreams

at the exact hour of timelessness;

the sorcerer speaking out of trance & torpor,

like Orpheus rising once more

out of forbidden lands,

let off only for to tell,

like the half to death beaten forester

in Hamish Imlach's ballad “Johnny O'Breadislee”,

spared just so that he could bring the tidings

of his six dead forester colleagues' cruel demise

as a warning to men in power

- but make no mistake,

REALITY,

although always just an individual imagery

for each sentient being,

plays an important role

on the stage of each poetry play,

upon which, though,

the auto worker isn't the car;

a baker not the bun,

a breather not the air,

a farmer not the potato,

the poet not the poem

- and should I happen to state the opposite

of all this,

that'd be fine too!