Myrna Peña-Reyes: World War II Poems
(from The River Singing Stone and Almost Home)
No More War, 1945
Riding back by water buffalo
to the bombed-burned city
that was home,
out of the jungle,
down from the dark hills,
our four years’ hiding over;
“Is the war really gone,
it won’t ever come back, ever?”
we asked Father walking beside the bulls.
“Yes,” looking bright in the sun,
“yes,” he said, stepping lightly
on his lame leg.
No soldier, he had been resting one day
when, panicked by the guns of a Jap patrol,
he ran down toward the river
and tumbled over a cliff.
It was weeks before the hilot came.
That was soon after Mother’s death.
For a year he had nursed her cancer
with no drugs—no doctors—
only the occasional mananambal
to try to ease her.
(When she cried out loud,
especially at night,
she frightened the children.)
Years later, wanting to know
what it was like for him,
I learned Father chose not to remember
what I know…
Run—run—
rumors of a Jap patrol,
a “guerilla” band
(they killed anyone)—run—
we learned not to complain
crouched under the circling planes—
awakened at night—
no questions—
“Take what you can”—
our bundles on our heads
run—run—run
my fear stretched farther
than the dark…
But on that day at the end of running,
riding home on those slow bulls,
Father stepping lightly on his lame leg
(when he said “No more war”
we thought we would never die),
there was so much sun—
it flowed on the ground
and flooded the sky.
Victor
After the war
our families lived in one big house.
Victor’s lived above us.
He had the largest marbles,
the brightest rubber bands,
and one smooth stone that shattered ours.
His toys were store-made.
We fashioned ours from sardine cans.
He always had chocolate
which he ate alone,
though he joined us
when we fought the children down the street.
He only played with us.
Awakened one night,
we heard men shouting in the street.
They stopped before our house.
Their torches turned their faces red.
“Get away from that window
and be quiet!” Father said.
Outside, they shouted Collaborator!
A rock smashed the window
and rolled on the floor.
Collaborator! and another.
We cowered like during the war
when planes riddled the earth.
Nobody in the house went by that name
Collaborator!
Then the men left to stone other houses
On other streets.
Next morning, Victor’s family packed.
Victor did not want to play.
He didn’t say goodbye.
They left on a bus.
It wasn’t something he had done.
He only played with us.
PHOTO: Manila, 1945After the war
our families lived in one big house.
Victor’s lived above us.
He had the largest marbles,
the brightest rubber bands,
and one smooth stone that shattered ours.
His toys were store-made.
We fashioned ours from sardine cans.
He always had chocolate
which he ate alone,
though he joined us
when we fought the children down the street.
He only played with us.
Awakened one night,
we heard men shouting in the street.
They stopped before our house.
Their torches turned their faces red.
“Get away from that window
and be quiet!” Father said.
Outside, they shouted Collaborator!
A rock smashed the window
and rolled on the floor.
Collaborator! and another.
We cowered like during the war
when planes riddled the earth.
Nobody in the house went by that name
Collaborator!
Then the men left to stone other houses
On other streets.
Next morning, Victor’s family packed.
Victor did not want to play.
He didn’t say goodbye.
They left on a bus.
It wasn’t something he had done.
He only played with us.
