Singing manhood's joy on Christmas

The outbreak of World War II in the Philippines was imminent when Mama Pelagia V. Soliven, a young 32-year old widow, fled to Sto. Domingo, Ilocos Sur with her nine children. Max’s father just died at the Philippine General Hospital where he was taken, weakened from his lengthy imprisonment at Capas, Tarlac. 

Max, my husband, was 14 years old, the oldest then. It was during this evacuation period that Max’s pen flowered with poetry. This continued until the war ended.

By then, the family returned to Manila and lived with Max’s grandfather at Calle Cavite, Blumentrit. He and his brother, Willie would walk to Ateneo temporarily housed at Plaza Guipit – before the school was relocated to Padre Faura.

Let me share with you his Christmas poems –

That I Might Call Him Child

How awesome is the holy name

And secret face of God,

The Lord of high creation,

The molder of the sod;

And all the mighty kings must bend

In fear before His rod.

How fearsome is the face of Christ

In pain upon the tree;

How blinding is the glory

Of his final victory…

The deathless One who died that we,

His people might be free!

How tender is the little face

That from a manger smiled,

A God come down from Heaven

Unto the lap of a Virgin child,

That I might clasp Him in my arms,

That I might call Him… Child!

Offering

I stood beside a manger

And saw an infant King;

I stood within a stable

And heard the angels sing.

I watched a hundred monarchs

Lay diadems at His feet

Bright gold and flaming jewels,

And spices rare and sweet!

They brought the fairest roses

To make His stable bright,

And silk, whose shade was fairer

Than the ebon sheen of night.

They stood before His manger-throne,

Each with an offering,

And all my heart was sad

Because I had no gift to bring!

I stood beside the manger bed

And saw the Christ-Child smile;

His arms were stretched towards me,

His gaze on me the while,

He said, “Of all this garnered wealth they brought

I want no part,

I only ask one rose from you –

The red rose of your heart!

The First Christmas

(Max with his younger brother, Willie, composed this poem for a collegiate competition. Max was editor-in-chief of the Guidon, while Willie was the art editor of The Heights, the quarterly newspaper of Ateneo High School. It was Willie who experienced studying at Loyola Heights where Ateneo was transferred from Padre Faura. He suggested to Fr. Masterson to change the name of the Ateneo High School Quarterly paper to The Heights.)

It was a chill and moonlit night

When angels from afar

Proclaimed to Heaven and Earth, the King

Predicted by a star.

And lo! A starry fire streamed down

On a stable doubly blest

By the Prince of Peace who lay asleep

Cradled on Mary’s breast.

And all the shepherds bent their knees,

Uncared for went the sheep;

Untouched by thorn, this Christmas morn,

Their savior lay asleep.

The Kings in adoration bowed

With red and pearly diadems

Yet more their gift of love was prized

Than all the Orient’s gems!

“Hora Christi!”, rang dark glens,

The silver hills replying;

And fast away the night and wind bore

Their echoes swiftly dying.

But still at Mary’s breast slept,

In dreams both sweet and deep;

And still in whispers soft and clear

She murmured “Sleep, Child, sleep!”

It was not Savior and Queen alone,

But Mother and Son again!

Born Flesh of her flesh, and

Bone of her bone

In the old, old way of men.

Maxie and Pagsi

Ateneo’s beloved and much awarded teacher, Onofre Pagsanjan, was one of Max’s bosom buddies. “Pagsi” recalled to me with sparkle in his eyes: “After class in Plaza Guipit, Maxie and I would go to the cemetery of La Loma where we could isolate ourselves in silence. There we would read to each other our newly composed poems.”

It was a much simple life, these young men lived, far away from the extremely material and commercial world of today. In spite of the ravages of war that surrounded them in Manila, they could sing:

“I would leap on my steed in the morning

And in my manhood’s joy

Go seeking the steeps of Camelot or

The wind-swept walls of Troy.”

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