About Me

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Pete Turpie grew up in Northumberland, England. He studied History of Art and English Literature at Manchester and Open University. Pete worked in Further Education management for almost 30 years. Writing under the pen-name 'Alan Wickes', his poetry has been published extensively in the UK, North America and Australia, appearing in Aesthetica, Znine, Worm, Loch Raven Review, The Chimera, Envoi, The Raintown Review and Angle. His sonnets have won Ware Poets national competition twice, in 2004 and 2009. Cannon Poets awarded first prize to his poem "Parting Shots" in November 2006. In November 2007 his chapbook Prospero at Breakfast was published by Modern Metrics. His work has featured in anthologies and he is included on 'The Hypertexts' site as a spotlight poet. In 2012 the sonnet sequence 'Nighthawks' was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Pete retired in 2012 and has recently completed an M.A. in Humanities with the University of Derby. In the longer term he is looking forward to travelling more extensively, enjoying family life and to have more time to further develop his writing.

Thursday, 14 April 2016

A road through autumn

For weeks I have wanted to write something about our travels beyond the blog, but did not know where to begin. A few days ago someone posted on FB Donald Justice's semi-formal pantoum, 'The Great Depression'. It's very powerful. I thought, the way inner and outer journeys interplay with time and memory as you travel could work in a pantoum form

A road through autumn

Autumn stalks us like a jilted lover.
We flee south seeking impossible freedom -
a slow drive across Champagne's ochre plains -
russet woods fringing the mirror-still Meuse.

We flee south seeking impossible freedom,
on ancient roads - empty, poplar shadowed,
through russet woods fringing the mirror-still Meuse.
We hardly speak, but watch the wordless light

hush down ancient roads. Empty, plane-tree shadowed,
a crumbling square in some Burgundian town -
we hardly speak, but watch the wordless light -
le crepuscule’ as we sip our 'deux noisettes'.

A crumbling square in some Burgundian town -
it feels like weeks or months ago,
'le crepuscule' as we sipped our 'deux noisettes',
uncertain how each day slipped out unnoticed.

It feels like weeks or months ago
we chanced upon a verdant valley
uncertain how each day slipped by unnoticed,
time sauntering south with us in Autumn's shadow.

We chanced upon a verdant valley:
turquoise lake, sunlit pastures, ice streaked peaks,
time sauntering south with us in Autumn's shadow:
a herdswoman prods her clanging cattle homewards.

Turquoise lake, sunlit pastures, ice streaked peaks,
flowery chalets dotting valley fields -
herders prodding clanging cattle homewards
today as for the past four thousand years.

Flowery chalets dot the valley fields,
"Is this our earthly paradise," I ask,
"today, as for the past four thousand years,
to walk in peace within each seasons' pulse?"

No earthly paradise! We wanderers ask,
"What lies beyond this green Arcadian valley?"
Peace may dwell within each seasons' pulse,
but we flee south on sultry Autumn's heels

to seek what lies beyond these verdant valleys:
a slow drive south through Puglia's dusty plains,
ever south on a sultry season's heels,
stalking Autumn like her long lost lover.


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