The Party

Helen Burke

The party to end all parties
will roll down the hill on Judgment Day
gathering people in its grassy arms,
until the people become like moss,
until their spirit becomes the spirit
of a thousand lichens and the colour
of violets.
There will be streams of comets
arranged like memories in their hair.
And --
no-one will feel they weren't asked
to the party.
No-one will be left out of it in a corner.
The party will roll and roll
like a huge dice
picking up speed as it goes, together with,
laughter and stars and hope.
The party will know everyone.
All the way through like a stick of rock.
What they really wanted their whole lives
and never got, - who they would like
to have loved and what would
have made them truly happy.
It will lay it all out at the bottom of the hill for them
inside a perfect golden bubble.
And people using champagne for blood
and candy floss for air
will make the first move
and knock on the door of the green and gold hillside.
And the party will swallow them up and spit them out
like the clear globes you hang on Christmas trees.
And then.
It will all start again.
Whether they are ready. Or not.



Helen Burke lives in York, where she runs poetry events. She has a c.d. of poems, called The Gift, and has appeared in a variety of magazines - Rialto, New Welsh Review, Northwords, the Oxford Magazine, Scintilla, Kindred Spirit, Raindog, South, and many others.

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The Party © 2004 Helen Burke: used with permission.
Copyright of this poem remains with the poet: please do not download or republish without permission.


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