"Syringa Tree" is such a specific reference, one that I cannot remember (are we surprised at this point that I can't remember doing many of these poems). My first instinct was that I was referring to a species of tree mentioned in Wangari Maathai's memoir, "Unbowed," but I knew that wasn't right. I read that book during my junior year of college, and I know I wrote this poem in high school. Most likely my senior year of high school, based on the format, but I'm not entirely sure. I did a quick Google search, and "The Syringa Tree" is a play about childhood under apartheid. I didn't read the play and I haven't seen a performance of the play, so I know I didn't get the idea of the tree from there. I'm not from Africa and I've never been to Africa, so I know the reference isn't from a personal experience with an exact tree or with the species. I'm dumbfounded. Why would I write this poem and reference this tree? I wouldn't even know what a Syringa tree looked like if I saw one.
Under the Syringa Tree
Good work, good moral
and good luck
stained,
from the fallen leaves,
broken branches,
and withered roots
of the Syringa Tree
Ignorance is bliss. And when the truth is hacked to the ground right in front of you, it’s all difficult to salvage. From under the Syringa Tree, we saw the loss of comfort.
Late lilacs blossom
lavender, brightly,
after a winter
of hibernating strength.
Together, in one
the flowers grow
in soil cluttered
with the giant kudzu,
the fat outreaching one
with an overbearing green
flooding
through manipulation
Kudzu battles
the rival Dandelion
Kudzu
Dandelion
Kudzu
Dandelion
There’s only one
Syringa Tree,
one set of lilacs
for all to share.
They fight
for the credit
of the lilacs
Lilacs fade
and shrivel
with stolen credit
and stolen time;
The pleasure
of the flower
ruined
Gust to gust
puddle to puddle
winds and monsoons
were tough to trek
time and time again;
But under the Syringa Tree
leaves, branches
and roots
have protected
the underlings
Underlings
fostered by rings
of an extended legacy
celebrating
the fruits of labor
in koa bowls
and golden trophies
Cutting the grains
of harvest,
sharing the gold
under the Syringa Tree,
fun and company
under the Syringa Tree
Underlings
nurtured by
the Buddha
the native gardener
the distant hope
the rival dandelion
and all-knowing doc
But now,
the Syringa Tree,
gnarled by drama
wrinkled by stress
and tireless labor
of previous sunsets,
endured
and grew
a most honorable name,
only to have it
eventually slandered
by senior woodcutters
and junior poachers
of a selfish gain
Senior woodcutters
who squabble for wood.
Wood that doesn’t
matter in the long run
yet benefits all
in the short.
And through the skirmish,
hack branches.
Junior poachers
looking for
every advantage
to help themselves,
to feed their inane mouths
and bask
in stolen sunlight
We now fight for the lilacs,
the same lilacs
we used to share
and grow together.
The underlings are losing
the Syringa Tree
he blossoms no longer
the same lilac
Presents
Friends
Foes
Lovers to Come
Journeys to Go:
dissipated
and lost
The rich savannas,
a balanced circle,
and prosperity
all
lost,
except the foes
The previous season
oversaw glory
of a new kind
and a fight to defend
a clean match up
But soon squandered
is tomorrow,
under the Syringa Tree
the lilacs are lost
The underlings
won’t be there much longer.
They will wither too.
dried spirit,
dried young’un spirit
deprived of an energy
even hose far from
the Syringa Tree
could use
And by then
more than the lilacs
will be lost
But the whole tree.
Just a stump will sitt,
trying again to rebuild
what the kudzu
and the senior woodcutters
and the junior poachers
destroyed
Branches severed by the human hand never regain their original shade. The comfort under the Syringa Tree will never have the same breeze nor will the lilacs bloom in the same radiance. The Syringa Tree may survive but will never grow greatness again.