[John Whitworth]

Well done Bazza and Martin Parker, you irreligious pair!

Lucy Vickery 15 December 2012
In Competition No. 2776 you were invited to supply a poem reflecting on the Nativity written from the point of view of the donkey or the ox who (according to artists’ portrayals of the event, at least) bore witness to it.

From the mid-1970s, the poet U.A. Fanthorpe wrote poems as Christmas greetings to her friends in which she reworked various aspects of the Christmas story. One of these, ‘What the Donkey Saw’, gives an ass’s-eye view on proceedings that fateful night in the poet’s typically wry and witty style.

An enjoyable one to judge, this. The extra fiver goes to G.M. Davis. The rest take £25. Happy Christmas!

We oxen are old hands, not prone to panics.
Take one night last December. In the annexe
(The stable, that is) two young Nazarenes
Were putting up their makeshift bedtime screens
When suddenly the woman’s waters broke.
Soon after that, the stable swarmed with folk —
Three fancy dans who rode in from the East…
Some shepherds … Lord, the madness never ceased …
Kowtowing, costly gifts and loud hosannas,
As everyone went totally bananas.
The whole fantastic business did my head in.
For this we lost the manger that we fed in,
To birth some howling biped? It’s bizarre.
For this those visitors pursued a star?
For this the shepherds left their precious flocks?
But no one ever listens to an ox.
G.M. Davis



Yeah, Mary somebody. She dropped her brat
Guess where? Right where I always eat my food,
Slap in the manger. Whaddya think of that?
Is that good manners? No, it’s bloody rude.

Mind you, I blame the landlord, greedy sod,
Renting my stable as a double room
Then claiming ‘Here was born the Son of God’.
His chutzpah would survive the crack of doom.

So first I get no food, and then no sleep,
Because guess what? Three foreigners appear,
Posh ones, and then some shepherds and their sheep.
I told the ox ‘I’m getting outta here.’

I found a turnip in a farmer’s ditch
And then just got my head down. Still, it seems
The landlord’s PR caught on, made him rich.
But ‘birth of the Messiah’? In your dreams.
Basil Ransome-Davies



You’ll find me in those carvings at Autun,
I carried her to Bethlehem, you see,
There’s Joseph, walking with the leading rein,
Throughout that journey he looked after me.

I’m glad they found a stable for us all
And shared with us the manger and the straw,
The ox was friendly in the nearby stall —
I’d never seen a human birth before.

We had a party when the shepherds came
And told of angels singing in the sky,
They sang and drank the baby’s health in ale,
We joined the singing too, the ox and I.

Then wise men came with gifts and prophecies,
And knelt before the baby’s crib to pray,
But all that night in fitful sleep I dreamt
I’d carry Jesus to his death one day.
Tim Raikes



It may be sedition but Christmas tradition
Of being cooped up to adore
A babe in a stable while being unable
To go out and graze is a bore.

For me there’s no mileage in wet hay and silage.
I’m hungry and fed up as hell;
And after a tenure of two whole millennia
I’m fed up with Christmas as well.

But now there’s some hope for us livestock. The Pope
Says we’re surplus to Christmas festivity,
Which seems at first glance to afford me the chance
To resume my most favourite activity.

So I’m done with the lowing. This year I am going
To kick down the old stable door,
Thus leaving the mother and baby to, maybe,
Enjoy their first cowpat-free straw.
Martin Parker



I laughed aloud when first I heard
The whisper that this babe was god
For man can truly be absurd,
A fool to rumour, myth and fraud.
And selfish too — this boy would come
Exclusively for humankind
Healing their lame, their deaf and dumb
But beasts like us would labour blind.
And down back-breaking years I saw
No changes in a donkey’s station
This mortal god would frame no law
Extending love to all creation.
I watched the little pantomime
And gave a long, sarcastic bray
Convinced that there would come a time
When an ass would see this god away.
Frank McDonald



An ass’s tale I have to tell,
Aye, have to tell,
Of how, upon that first Noel,
I witnessed something wild:
In dazzling starlight, bright as day,
That new-born, on a bed of hay,
Was, in some odd, peculiar way,
No ordinary child.

And then I saw what some might see,
Aye, some might see,
In generations yet to be
When midnight’s church bells peal.
Not doubting then what met my sight
Nor weaving some fair fancies’ flight
But, filled with wonder on that night,
I saw the oxen kneel.
Alan Millard