Twenty first century nativity.


On the twentieth floor of a high rise flat,

A new born baby cries by his mother’s side

Her name was Marie with no where to bide,

No father came to chase the rats.

The child lay in an old pram with no wheels,

No warm cot as the hospital was full.

On this cold winter night stars shone down,

Bringing no comfort in their nightly bloom.

She had left her country of warming sand,

To keep her baby safe from invaders hand.

Her husband died saving them both,

Pushing them onto  an unsafe boat.

After months of agonizing fearful travel,

Arriving at a place safe and free,

Kept as a prisoner within a shed,

She cried to heaven, God save me.


A gaggle of young children came to look,

Disturbed at Maries  baby’s awful plight,

Scampering off again into the night,

Shouting don’t worry Marie it will work out right.

She smiled wanely as she weakly rocked the babe,

Three men came in finely dressed and laughing,

Sneering at her and her new born child,

She screamed at them to go leaving no gift,

As they shrugged and laughing went.

Lying back on a soiled pillow seeking some sleep,

Hearing the rats scrapping at her feet,

Again she screamed and kicked them away,

She knew they would be back another day.

Church bells faintly rang through the frosty mist,

a congregation in finery sang their carols,

would she be missed at the food bank door,

night drew on darkness deep and dire,

what she would give for a warming fire.

Threadbare clothes pulled tight to her skin,

Cuddling her babe as her tears splashed down,

Holding him close to generate heat,

Cold biting hard at his little feet.

A friend came in at near dawn,

 carrying some food and a warming blanket.

As dawn fully rose all was quiet,

No sound was heard in the dereliction,

Of this unholy squaler and rubbish,

The weak sun shone through the broken glass,

Upon three figures holding each other fast,

No sound was heard no baby cries,

No one to miss them at the homeless fires.


© andrew .provan.mcintyre.7 january 2018.

 This is one of my poems would it be better for having an illustration? Do the words convey an image into one,s mind? I like both with an illustration and without.Words on their own can conjure images of what the reader sees mentally,as in a book .When the book is made into a film then it can be disappointing as the characters image isnt the same as one imagines.So i open the discussion, I look forward to other constructive comments.

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Great poem. If you plan on a book if going to a publisher they don't like previously published works and in this modern world sharing via social media or forums is considered previously published. But if self publishing it is another story. Learned this recently myself as I have hundreds of prose and poetry wishing to publish.. Good luck... as far as images it is "nice" but your poem could stand alone just fine.


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