This is not my first blog. These are not my first publications. There is a community of writers and readers who know me by another name.
I stopped writing for some long desert of a time.
When I picked up a pencil again, I was surprised by a compulsion to write poems. I never identified as a poet. In fact, poetry scared me. It felt too raw, too close to exposing intimate experiences. Done right, that is exactly what a poem achieves: exposure of a truth through the manipulation of the metaphysical properties of language. I want and need to participate in the long tradition of portfolio poems. I write just for me. I don’t know if any of of my poems are good in the sense of, “Do they express a truth in such a way as to be recognizable to someone beyond myself?” I do know that each of them is as close to my truth as I am able to get, and using a different name to share those truths frees me from the censorship of wondering how people who know me in the concrete tug and grind of the world will react to those truths. I do not always have pretty things to say. I divine in my wounds the mechanism of my survival. As Josephine St. Vincent, I embody the poet obscura. I thrive in the sanctity of this giddiness, my freedom.
-Josephine St. Vincent,
The Poet Obscura