lemon tree photo (Amada44)‘The Lemon Tree’: A Poem by Satyananda Sarangi The Society January 14, 2025 Beauty, Poetry 18 Comments . The Lemon Tree We leave the house, the nurtured lawn is gone; The garden still resembles lifeless works Of abstract art; at times banana leaves Seem painted by a brush. I look upon The fruiting lemon tree, a souvenir My father gifted me some years ago; He says such sumptuous gardens show the perks Of serving in the government. It’s clear He loved them, later on I came to know. That sight is special, lemons hang like bulbs On Christmas trees; yet still the songbirds owe Recitals, build their nests nearby and hum Ecstatic lyrics meant for only me. But post-retirement, when tiny thieves Infest and eat the tree, the sparrow grieves Dark seasons; other owners cannot see Such love. The future generations come And go, but somehow find its roots below. . . Satyananda Sarangi is a young civil servant by profession. A graduate in electrical engineering from IGIT Sarang, his works have featured in the Society of Classical Poets, Shot Glass Journal, Snakeskin, WestWard Quarterly, Sparks of Calliope, Page & Spine, Glass: Facets of Poetry, The GreenSilk Journal and elsewhere. Currently, he resides in Odisha, India. NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary. Trending now: 18 Responses Shamik Banerjee January 14, 2025 Being the only child of a retired government employee, having had the privilege of residing in many Indian states, and calling multiple houses my “home,” I can fully relate to the “perks” your poem talks about, Satyananda. Equating the garden’s disorganised state with lifeless works of abstract art is not just a clever thought but also a gripping one. Parting from these houses that smiled at my childhood, witnessed my schooldays, and saw me grow was never easy. The love one occupant carries will never be felt nor understood by the future dwellers. Thanks for sharing this really beautiful piece. PS: I love the love-filled, authoritative tone in “Ecstatic lyrics meant for only me.” Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 15, 2025 Dear Sir, It’s been more than two decades now at my present place – memories walk around in the garden beside trees standing season after season – each one of them with a story of their own. Glad to read about your experience on this. Best wishes! Reply Roy E. Peterson January 14, 2025 My first thought went to an old song by Peter, Paul, and Mary, called “Lemon Tree” with the words, “Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flowers is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.” Then I realized upon concluding my reading of your poem you had another deep meaning of the roots surviving by and for generations. Well thought out and nicely rhymed. Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 15, 2025 Thanks a ton for finding the piece good enough. Always a pleasure to have your reflection on my work. Indeed the roots go deep beyond the point of human trace. Reply Joseph S. Salemi January 14, 2025 A lovely memory-and-meditation poem, with a somewhat irregular rhyme scheme that gives the piece the appearance of blank verse with the lingering recollection of rhyme. In fact, every line has a corresponding end rhyme in some other line, except for the tenth line (“bulbs”). The poem has an elegiac tone — the speaker’s father seems to have died after retirement, the family is moving away from the home, and I sense that the lemon tree itself is suffering from some infestation of insects or disease. The last two lines are ambiguous, because they suggest that new dwellers in the place will also go away eventually, but they will find the roots of the lemon tree. Is the tree dead, or will its buried roots sprout up once more? Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Joseph Sir, As rightly pointed out by you, the rhyme scheme is irregular. Perhaps this is primarily because of so many dissimilar entities in the garden – each of them deserving a separate poem. Besides the affinity of the poet to the lemon tree gives rise to what I can refer to as “stream of consciousness” (a continuous flow of emotions which are irregular and unconventional). Hence, the irregularity in rhyme can be attributed to this spontaneity of the poet’s thought. Coming to the second part, the lemon tree is gone after being invaded by insects and termite. Nobody will care much about the dead roots which lie beneath the soil like the present dweller. It’s always a pleasant feeling to have your remarks on my work. Thanks a ton! Reply Gigi Ryan January 14, 2025 This is a beautiful and melancholy piece. I love the connections to the birds – the songbirds that owe a recital and later the grieving sparrows. We humans are not the primary appreciator of trees. The image of the lemons hanging like bulbs on a Christmas tree is so cheerful to me. Thank you for this poem. Gigi Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Gigi Ma’am, I’m grateful for your beautiful thoughts on my poem. I keep going back to reading “Sonnet for Mom” once in a while. That’s a masterpiece. Regards Reply Cheryl A Corey January 14, 2025 “The fruiting lemon tree, a souvenir My father gifted me some years ago;” sent me back some twenty years (maybe more!) when my father returned from a Florida golf trip with a box containing a miniature orange tree, about a foot long, with only four leaves. I thought I killed it when a few fell off, but as I put it outdoors every summer and brought it in for the winter, not only did it grow, but it’s produced quarter-sized fruit (so tart!). It grows so much that I have to prune it back, and no insects bother it. Hopefully your lemon tree can be salvaged. Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Cheryl Ma’am, How lovely it is to know that despite being separated by time, space and distance, we share a similar experience. And indeed such experiences in life bind one human soul to another across boundaries. My lemon tree can never be revived – it’s been seven long years since it feel prey to termites. But its presence had a formative influence; though now the tree exists only in memories. But I’m more than happy to read that your orange tree is healthy and unaffected by insects, touch wood! Best wishes. Reply Cynthia Erlandson January 14, 2025 Like Shamik, I loved your comparison of the neglected garden to “lifeless works of abstract art.” And, like Joseph, I enjoyed the random rhyme scheme; perhaps it also reflects the somewhat unruly state of the garden? Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Cynthia Ma’am, The random rhyme scheme is symbolic of the garden to some extent. It’s more about the poet’s state of mind when he finds his lemon tree is wilting away. The randomness/irregularity stands for mayhem within the poet. Thanks for these words. Gratitude! Reply Susan Jarvis Bryant January 15, 2025 Atmospheric, wistful and oh so very beautiful. I love the way the lemon tree shines with the memories of the past and withers in the harsh gaze of the present. Satyananda, this poem sings to my heart as all good poems should! Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 18, 2025 Dear Susan Ma’am, It’s been a long time since I had your lovely compliment on any of my poem. The preceding year was one of the most challenging ones on all levels. I believe this poem could prove to be the comeback poem. Thanks for such uplifting words – they’ve always done me a world of good to be honest! Best wishes! Reply Daniel Tuton January 17, 2025 Satyananda, I was very moved by this poem. So much is at stake when loving memories seem to perish within the fleeting life of a garden. I think I felt much the same way when I found that the home my parents (who were also civil servants) eventually moved away from, and in which so much of my young, developing life was lived, was radically changed by the new owners. The first casualty of their intervention was a beautiful, shady elm in the backyard. That struck a blow to my heart. But the memory is enduring and irremovable. Thanks for a beautiful poem. Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 18, 2025 Dear Sir, greetings! After you shared your experience of “the shady elm in the backyard”, it has been popping up in my mind throughout the day. Thus, I’ve been thinking of standing next to few of the trees (mango, jackfruit, pomegranate, guava, coconut and others) in my garden. There must have been memories of you and your shady elm – how beautiful and lovely an experience to cherish for years to come. Looking forward to reading your poems! Reply Margaret Coats January 20, 2025 A mysterious poem whose time scheme I didn’t understand at first. Glad you’ve mentioned the “stream of consciousness” technique in your replies, Satyananda. That doesn’t require time references, and lets the lemon tree stand as the central image to which all else refers. Its death and the now invisible love it inspired remain manifest in memory and perhaps in the still-present roots. You are quite correct that a garden and its features create a scene that is both seasonal, and in some way, immortal. Reply Satyananda Sarangi January 30, 2025 Greetings, Margaret Ma’am! Your insights on the lemon tree being the central character is accurate – ‘stream of consciousness’ brings into picture the complex thoughts upwelling in the poet’s mind. As you refer to the immortality of a garden, I’m reminded of this masterpiece by Andrew Marvell. The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow’rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am’rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond’rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar’d for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk’d without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs! Reply Leave a Reply Cancel ReplyYour email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Δ This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.
Shamik Banerjee January 14, 2025 Being the only child of a retired government employee, having had the privilege of residing in many Indian states, and calling multiple houses my “home,” I can fully relate to the “perks” your poem talks about, Satyananda. Equating the garden’s disorganised state with lifeless works of abstract art is not just a clever thought but also a gripping one. Parting from these houses that smiled at my childhood, witnessed my schooldays, and saw me grow was never easy. The love one occupant carries will never be felt nor understood by the future dwellers. Thanks for sharing this really beautiful piece. PS: I love the love-filled, authoritative tone in “Ecstatic lyrics meant for only me.” Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 15, 2025 Dear Sir, It’s been more than two decades now at my present place – memories walk around in the garden beside trees standing season after season – each one of them with a story of their own. Glad to read about your experience on this. Best wishes! Reply
Roy E. Peterson January 14, 2025 My first thought went to an old song by Peter, Paul, and Mary, called “Lemon Tree” with the words, “Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flowers is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.” Then I realized upon concluding my reading of your poem you had another deep meaning of the roots surviving by and for generations. Well thought out and nicely rhymed. Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 15, 2025 Thanks a ton for finding the piece good enough. Always a pleasure to have your reflection on my work. Indeed the roots go deep beyond the point of human trace. Reply
Joseph S. Salemi January 14, 2025 A lovely memory-and-meditation poem, with a somewhat irregular rhyme scheme that gives the piece the appearance of blank verse with the lingering recollection of rhyme. In fact, every line has a corresponding end rhyme in some other line, except for the tenth line (“bulbs”). The poem has an elegiac tone — the speaker’s father seems to have died after retirement, the family is moving away from the home, and I sense that the lemon tree itself is suffering from some infestation of insects or disease. The last two lines are ambiguous, because they suggest that new dwellers in the place will also go away eventually, but they will find the roots of the lemon tree. Is the tree dead, or will its buried roots sprout up once more? Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Joseph Sir, As rightly pointed out by you, the rhyme scheme is irregular. Perhaps this is primarily because of so many dissimilar entities in the garden – each of them deserving a separate poem. Besides the affinity of the poet to the lemon tree gives rise to what I can refer to as “stream of consciousness” (a continuous flow of emotions which are irregular and unconventional). Hence, the irregularity in rhyme can be attributed to this spontaneity of the poet’s thought. Coming to the second part, the lemon tree is gone after being invaded by insects and termite. Nobody will care much about the dead roots which lie beneath the soil like the present dweller. It’s always a pleasant feeling to have your remarks on my work. Thanks a ton! Reply
Gigi Ryan January 14, 2025 This is a beautiful and melancholy piece. I love the connections to the birds – the songbirds that owe a recital and later the grieving sparrows. We humans are not the primary appreciator of trees. The image of the lemons hanging like bulbs on a Christmas tree is so cheerful to me. Thank you for this poem. Gigi Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Gigi Ma’am, I’m grateful for your beautiful thoughts on my poem. I keep going back to reading “Sonnet for Mom” once in a while. That’s a masterpiece. Regards Reply
Cheryl A Corey January 14, 2025 “The fruiting lemon tree, a souvenir My father gifted me some years ago;” sent me back some twenty years (maybe more!) when my father returned from a Florida golf trip with a box containing a miniature orange tree, about a foot long, with only four leaves. I thought I killed it when a few fell off, but as I put it outdoors every summer and brought it in for the winter, not only did it grow, but it’s produced quarter-sized fruit (so tart!). It grows so much that I have to prune it back, and no insects bother it. Hopefully your lemon tree can be salvaged. Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Cheryl Ma’am, How lovely it is to know that despite being separated by time, space and distance, we share a similar experience. And indeed such experiences in life bind one human soul to another across boundaries. My lemon tree can never be revived – it’s been seven long years since it feel prey to termites. But its presence had a formative influence; though now the tree exists only in memories. But I’m more than happy to read that your orange tree is healthy and unaffected by insects, touch wood! Best wishes. Reply
Cynthia Erlandson January 14, 2025 Like Shamik, I loved your comparison of the neglected garden to “lifeless works of abstract art.” And, like Joseph, I enjoyed the random rhyme scheme; perhaps it also reflects the somewhat unruly state of the garden? Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 17, 2025 Dear Cynthia Ma’am, The random rhyme scheme is symbolic of the garden to some extent. It’s more about the poet’s state of mind when he finds his lemon tree is wilting away. The randomness/irregularity stands for mayhem within the poet. Thanks for these words. Gratitude! Reply
Susan Jarvis Bryant January 15, 2025 Atmospheric, wistful and oh so very beautiful. I love the way the lemon tree shines with the memories of the past and withers in the harsh gaze of the present. Satyananda, this poem sings to my heart as all good poems should! Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 18, 2025 Dear Susan Ma’am, It’s been a long time since I had your lovely compliment on any of my poem. The preceding year was one of the most challenging ones on all levels. I believe this poem could prove to be the comeback poem. Thanks for such uplifting words – they’ve always done me a world of good to be honest! Best wishes! Reply
Daniel Tuton January 17, 2025 Satyananda, I was very moved by this poem. So much is at stake when loving memories seem to perish within the fleeting life of a garden. I think I felt much the same way when I found that the home my parents (who were also civil servants) eventually moved away from, and in which so much of my young, developing life was lived, was radically changed by the new owners. The first casualty of their intervention was a beautiful, shady elm in the backyard. That struck a blow to my heart. But the memory is enduring and irremovable. Thanks for a beautiful poem. Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 18, 2025 Dear Sir, greetings! After you shared your experience of “the shady elm in the backyard”, it has been popping up in my mind throughout the day. Thus, I’ve been thinking of standing next to few of the trees (mango, jackfruit, pomegranate, guava, coconut and others) in my garden. There must have been memories of you and your shady elm – how beautiful and lovely an experience to cherish for years to come. Looking forward to reading your poems! Reply
Margaret Coats January 20, 2025 A mysterious poem whose time scheme I didn’t understand at first. Glad you’ve mentioned the “stream of consciousness” technique in your replies, Satyananda. That doesn’t require time references, and lets the lemon tree stand as the central image to which all else refers. Its death and the now invisible love it inspired remain manifest in memory and perhaps in the still-present roots. You are quite correct that a garden and its features create a scene that is both seasonal, and in some way, immortal. Reply
Satyananda Sarangi January 30, 2025 Greetings, Margaret Ma’am! Your insights on the lemon tree being the central character is accurate – ‘stream of consciousness’ brings into picture the complex thoughts upwelling in the poet’s mind. As you refer to the immortality of a garden, I’m reminded of this masterpiece by Andrew Marvell. The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown’d from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow’rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am’rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress’ name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion’s heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond’rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that’s made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain’s sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root, Casting the body’s vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar’d for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk’d without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share To wander solitary there: Two paradises ’twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard’ner drew Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th’ industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs! Reply
