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!