  Poetry
This week: Hilaire Belloc Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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The Night
by Hilaire Belloc
Most Holy Night, that still dost keep
The keys of all the doors of sleep,
To me when my tired eyelids close
Give thou repose.
And let the far lament of them
That chaunt the dead day’s requiem
Make in my ears, who wakeful lie,
Soft lullaby.
Let them that guard the hornаed Moon
By my bedside their memories croon.
So shall I have new dreams and blest
In my brief rest.
Fold thy great wings about my face,
Hide day-dawn from my resting-place,
And cheat me with thy false delight,
Most Holy Night.
On July 27, 1870 Louis Belloc and his wife Elizabeth Rayner Parkes welcomed son Hilaire Belloc into their family. The Belloc family moved to England when Hilaire was two years old. Belloc was schooled at Oratory School, Birmingham. After Belloc finished school he enlisted in the French Army. Upon his return to England he became a student at Balliol College, Oxford. Belloc graduated with honors. He started his career by traveling to the United States on a lecture tour. During that time he published two books of verse A Bad Child's Book of Beasts in 1896 and Verses and Sonnets in 1896.
In 1896 Belloc married Elodie Hogan. After a couple year is America Belloc moved himself and his family to Britain in 1902. The couple had five children in their short time together. Elodie died in 1914 of influenza, which left Belloc in mourning for the remainder of his life. He kept everything of hers exactly the way she had left it. His eldest son was killed in 1918 while serving in the Royal Flying Corps. During this years Belloc worked as an editor for Daily News and The Speaker and then the Morning Post. He had strong views against women’s right to vote even though his mother and sister supported the cause. He often wrote about his political views and beliefs. He became an editor of the political weekly in 1910. He wrote about his political views in his book The Party System published in 1911. Followed by his book The Servile State published in 1912 where he attacked welfare programs.
In the years that followed Belloc wrote many books about the First World War to help the war effort and to share his sometimes hostile views of the German race. Land and Water was a great success. Belloc lost many of his friends during the war and one son. His books were his release, his way to share his outrage and political views. After the war he published Roman Catholicism, Europe and Faith Published in 1920. Followed by his series of historical biographies: Oliver Cromwell in 1927, James II in 1928, Richelieu in 1930, Wolsey in 1930, Cranmer in 1931, Napoleon in 1932 and his last publication was Charles II in 1940. In 1942 Hilaire Belloc suffered a stroke, and his writing stopped, he died on July 16th, 1953.
The South Country
by Hilaire Belloc
When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend:
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.
If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
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CHASE A DREAM
Since I became an oldie, pushing seventy-eight,
I've had a crushing feeling, that it might be too late.
There are still commitments, it's all work, no play.
I find myself muttering as I keep living life this way.
My dreams bring me hope for a brighter future
and I can't wait to fall asleep and to nuture
the romantic dreams that come uncalled for,
entering into my wild imagination's open door.
The shiniest of diamonds were offered by a king,
who on bended knee promised me everything.
Golden flowers sprouted, rainbows in the sky,
were all I needed in this dream to truly satisfy.
Blushing acceptance, with his ring on my finger,
In this dream I was really determined to linger.
But alas and alack, dreams do come to an end
and to a prison of life, too soon they will mend.
Onward to chase a dream, I shut my eyes tight
and out through the bars I could see twilight.
The stripes I was wearing were not wedding fare,
I woke up crying, just really glad I wasn't there!
Since I became an oldie, pushing seventy-eight,
I've had a crushing feeling, that it might be too late.
Countrymom
1/12/14
Honorable mention:
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Poetry: February 05, 2014 Issue [#6148]
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