Two Poems

by Stephen Philip Druce

Stephen Philip Druce writes two poems, ‘The Gardener and the Rose’ and ‘Wedding Nausea” for this mixed bag issue. Read on.


The gardener felt
inferior to the rose.

The rose, with its natural
beauty for portraits –
a blazing jewel in the dirt,

flaming without fire,
ice cool for the burning sun,

alluring to the bees, its sweet
perfumed scent, its eagle petals
that swooned with clutched
un-spilt raindrops, bestowed
from ballet clouds.

Then one day the rose got
too old. The gardener wept as
he cut it down –

the rose with the inferior soul.


Anywhere but here – but I am.
I am a wedding guest.

With my death the only
legitimate excuse for my
absence, I attend the church
ceremony under duress.

I stand dutifully, singing a
hymn I don’t recognise, among
an unspiritual congregation of
penguin-suited, pink-tied,
carnation-wearing twits with
personalities so hideously square
I feel unwell.

The bride is late, but the groom
had better not be, or the bride
may display public hysterics in a
wedding dress – a dress so
aesthetically pleasing she dare not
wear it more than once.

The father of the bride gives his
daughter away as if she were a
second hand car – a spectacle so
grotesque I have to close both eyes.
The only upside to the phoney bash
is that the church keeps the rain out.

The best man’s speech anecdote –
based on the occasion the groom left
his sandwiches on the train, prompts
wild guffawing as artificial as the wedding
cake: a sickly souvenir cake meticulously
created, but wouldn’t tempt the taste buds
of a starving orphan.

Some of the guests are unloved – never
been loved. Nevertheless, obliged to express
their unbridled joy for the newly-weds, obliged
to grace their pretentious protocol party while
simultaneously restraining their own impending

Stephen Philip Druce is a poet from Shrewsbury in the UK. He is published with SPARK, CAKE, THE PLAYERIST, THE LEMON PRESS, THE INCONSEQUENTIAL, LOCUST, MUSE, STRIDE, PULSAR, INK SWEAT AND TEARS and other publications.
Share on FacebookTweet about this on TwitterShare on Google+Email this to someone

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


Read previous post:
When a Pen Goes Missing

Sourav Pattanayak writes a poem in memory of his favourite pen which has gone missing. By extension, the poem also...