Summary

Scot's poem "A Poem I Wrote To Encourage A Depressed Writer" uses the metaphor of bees and a violet flower to inspire and heal a fellow poet, Roselyn Violet, and the broader community of writers.

Abstract

The poem, dedicated to Roselyn Violet, draws a parallel between the functions of bees within a hive and the roles of poets and poetry in society. It describes poetry as a means of communication, healing, and nourishment for the mind and soul, likening poems to various types of bees—queen, worker, nurse, and guard—each with its unique purpose. The author encourages Roselyn and other poets to find strength and inspiration in shared experiences and words, suggesting that even in moments of despair, there is valuable wisdom to be gained. The poem emphasizes the interconnectedness of poets and the power of their collective work to provide comfort, guidance, and resilience.

Opinions

Poetry serves as a landing pad for emotions and thoughts, akin to the white petal of a violet, providing a space for poets to share their deepest wounds and for readers to connect with those experiences.
The author views some poets as sacrificial, akin to drone bees who exhaust themselves in service to their craft, much like historical figures Sylvia Plath and Jack Kerouac.
Poems are seen as a form of communication, akin to the waggle dance of bees, directing others to sources of emotional and intellectual nourishment.
The poem suggests that, like nurse bees, some poems can offer therapeutic benefits, prescribing remedies for a reader's emotional ailments.
The author expresses a desire to protect fellow poets from harm, comparing this protective role to that of guard bees safeguarding their hive.
The poem posits that the collective efforts of poets, similar to worker bees regulating the hive's temperature, can soothe and cool the emotional turmoil of readers.
The author believes that poems can provide a path to recovery and enlightenment, guiding poets through the darkest moments with wisdom born from shared human experiences.
Scot acknowledges the challenges faced by poets, including a lack of recognition and the emotional toll of their work, and encourages them to find solace in the supportive community of fellow writers.

A Poem I Wrote To Encourage A Depressed Writer

A poem to lift the spirits of another poet

Violet, a herbaceous plant of temperate regions, typically having purple, blue, or five white petaled flowers, one of which forms a landing pad for pollinating insects and I might add, violet is a metaphor for poetry.

Poems are the white petal, the landing pad of a Violet, to help us feel and to see our most deepest wounds. Our tears are never wasted, if you’re willing to share your scars with the world. Our poems carry what we hear in our darkest moments back to the beehive of people.

Our brain is like the Queen Bee, it’s the steward to the hundreds of droning thoughts and feelings who forage for nectar and pollen from the poems of others to help us nourish our mind and feelings to keep on going in our journeys.

If you think about it: a poem expels like a worker bee that chemical called pheromones and it spreads a message to the rest of the hive. Some poems let us know that all is well and to keep plugging along, others make us stop in our tracks and listen to a fellow poet suffering, that’s how poem made me feel today.

I’ve come to learn that some poets, just like people in nine-to-five jobs, are like drone bees who flame out. The Sylvia Plaths and Jack Kerouacs who die from the service of poetry, while the business of the hive goes on and the foraging female worker bees, fly in and out of the hive to search for nectar and pollen to create honey.

Have you ever googled why worker bees dance? It’s to communicate with a GPS precision the directions to the locations for other foraging bees to find more pollen, and, yes, that’s what a good poem does, it shows in the details where to find pollen, that good shit that will nourish our mind.

I read today there are the nurse bees whose job is to look after the sick bees and some poems are like nurse bees prescribing different kinds of honey, depending on a reader’s infection and, if necessary, I read nurse bees remove any sick bees from the hive to protect other bees from catching their sickness. I don’t know what happens if they get well, do they then get welcomed back?

Poems can be like guard bees in a hive, those bees who march back and forth in front of the entrance to the hive ready to kill any unwanted enemies who try to enter the hive to steal honey. I want to be that kind of poet to you, to let you know people are Pandora boxes — some people at least — who will do harm to your our soul and so we must run away and flee the moment we recognize them.

And I suppose the thousands of worker bees, like a good poem, regulate our temperature to the just-right Fahrenheit in their imagery, help the flock of hungry readers be cooled. They go on your and my behalf to gather up water droplets, rapidly buzzing their wings to allow the droplets to evaporate and cool off our hurts. Their buzzing a boxer’s shadow punches and jabs, regulating our emotions when they spring loose like a coil on a chair.

Beside this, a poem is like a mythic character, an Odysseus-like warrior bringing a message they’ve gained from fighting the wars of living to teach or to instruct the tribe of fellow poets, to encourage us with a soul-inspiring wisdom, gleaned from the clutches of hard experience to show us a path we never even knew existed.

I want this poem to be that encouragement, that pathway to you, Roselyn Violet, to let not just my words, but the words n poems of other poets to be the nectar nourishing you back. Let our words heal your temporary wounds Let our words coagulate blood in your veins. Let our words be data you store in your brain. Let our words drive out those terrible hurts. Let our words subdue those unwanted enemies. Let our words give back your wildest dreams.

Lastly, I want to say that when the people you love aren’t good at noticing how you’re torturing yourself or your favorite flowers, white roses, aren’t making you happy like they normally do and you’re dog tired of letting other people treat you like shit — I hear you, Roselyn Violet — then let one of your worker bee-fellow poets show you the way out of your misery, but first, stop and listen to what your Misery has to say because at rock bottom she offers gold nectar to nourish you back to True North from her coldest springs.

Hi I’m Scot and thank you for reading my poem.

Thanks too Roselyn for inspiring me this morning.

It was in response to her “Violet Poetry” Challenge, although I actually wrote it before I saw her challenge.

From reading her story, “I am Tired and Have Nothing Worth to Say Write Now.”

Ironically, it inspired my four minute poem.