The poems that fill a teenager's heart

The OB Montessori Poetry Festival starts with preschoolers and grade school students. Then it concludes with the high school oratorical contest. Since the poems and essays of my husband, Max Soliven, are used in the elocution contests every year, our poetry specialist and coach of 21 years, Mercy Soliven David (Max’s sister) made a compilation of his 97 poems and 13 essays.

This article contains excerpts of these essays and poems that filled his teenager’s heart. Max, as a teenager, wrote these during the war years and “liberation days” between 1941 to 1948. He lived in Sto. Domingo, Ilocos Sur after losing his father Assemblyman Benito Soliven in the Death March. His widowed mother took him and his eight brothers and sisters to their old home in Herran, Paco and found it burned down to the ground.

During their Ateneo high school and college years, Onofre “Pagsi” Pagsanghan said that their Jesuit literature teachers like Fr. O’ Brien and Fr. Murphy made them love the poetry of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman. What is memorable is Max and he would go to the cemetery where the silence allowed them to read to each other their self-composed poems.

Dedication to My Father

(July 11, 1948, Herran, Manila)

Dear father, I know this tardy, tawdry tribute will not reach you, you who so loved poetry that you made your whole life a poem. Yet, I did not hesitate to fashion this garland for your brow. For you would have wanted me to fashion such a wreath although my fingers were clumsy at their task because to your way of thinking the noblest thing in life second to the love and service of God is to be able to create. How well remembered are the lines you loved: How characteristic of you. You said:

“If I would have my name endure

I’ll write it in the hearts of men…”

The Men Of Bataan

(February 2, 1943; 14 years old)

The men of Bataan –

I shall see them as I have always seen them

A ragged processional of gaunt, grim

and ghostly men.

Marching from a field that slept;

No longer underneath their stars

and stripes,

But under the blood-red banners

Of an alien conqueror that had come

Like shadows in the night,

To thrust the bayonet of treachery into

the side of good.

I shall see them as they marched

side by side,

Triumphant in their agony;

For freedom did not falter with

their falling, but lives,

Brighter for their sacrifice

In the hearts of men……

I shall remember them…

As my children shall remember them

A ragged army marching from

a ragged battlefield

That they had held with valor

and with pride

Until the end.

A ragged army tramping

to the jeers of enemies,

A wasted troop that would not surrender

A wasted field!

Muralla

(September 1943, Herran, Manila)

Adjacent to his school, Ateneo at Padre Faura, is the historical fort of Intramuros which inspired Max’s 10 stanza poem.

Stone on stone, block on block, stands

still the Muralla,

Mute as though the voice had fled from

its grim walls.

Those ramparts – once flashing

with steel –

Harkening to the grim thunder

of cannonade –

Bristling with the lofty banners of España

Stand silent, after over three centuries –

Nay, five centuries of grandeur

and glory –

Sanguinary reminder of haughty

Castillian

Domination in the Philippine Isles…

Silent canons face the bay –

Unspeaking testimonial of

a once mighty Spain –

Now speechless and unmoving.

Were shouts of “SANTIAGO!”

and the frantic VIVAS –

Of a once proud dynasty echoed

and re-echoed –

Is grim – forbidding Silence.

Where the tumultuous crash of arms,

and the cries of battle

Once resounded –

As the knights of Spain defended this Muralla –

Against the English Privateers –

The rat builds his hole – and the cat

prowls nightly.

Muralla – where is thy glory?

It is gone…

Prayer

(November 1, 1943, Herran, Manila)

Every morning, Max’s mother made sure that he and Willie, his younger brother would serve Mass at the Ateneo chapel.

Pray now, my friend — pray now, to God,

For there is neither glory, wealth,

power of Pride,

With does not hold – an ultimate

communion with the sod.

We are ever in the Hand

of the Almighty God –

Pray now – I ask you, pray now

– and pray for me.

Pray for the world, pray for the sins

of Mankind…

Pray for unbeliever –

And pray, too, for yourself…

Pray now! For there is need of prayer

Pray now – for the sins of Man are greater than ever –

Pray now – for sin there is – abounding everywhere –

Pray now for a world plunged in hate and greed –

Pray – for your friends, for your families–

Pray for light, pray for grace – pray

for peace…

For there is strength in prayer.

Each moment spent in prayer,

be it a minute, hour, or day –

Alike is a tribute to the Eternal King –

One prayer – one world of repentance –

That springs from the heart –

from the soul –

Shall weigh down the wrong of the world–

Upon the scale of Justice… shall stand

for all Eternity!

The Three Mouseketeers

This is a silly poem Max made just for fun.

We three Mouseketeers are brave and bold,

We brave the heat, we brave the cold,

And when we steal a very nice cheese,

We are careful to say the words,

“If you please.”

Each of us has a trusty sword,

And we live in a nice and cozy board,

And when the cat finds our lair

We’ll cut off that snooper’s hair.

We’ll find the villain in his lair

We’ll jump on him and muss up his hair

So we’re three mouseketeers brave and bold,

We brave the heat and also the cold.

Poeta nascitur, orator fit

I used to ask Max what made his pen blossom with verses. He simply repeated the Latin saying his poetic father, Benito, often quoted: Poeta nascitur, orator fit. Poets are born, orators are made.

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