ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Curran was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1975. He holds a degree in English Language & Literature from the University of Oxford and a Master's Degree from the Royal Central School of Speech & Drama. He has worked widely as a professional actor.
His Only Sonnet is Paul Curran's first collection of poetry.
ABOUT HIS ONLY SONNET
Struck by the enduring appeal of the sonnet and its specific poetic challenges, Paul Curran sets out to write poems that are modern in subject matter yet traditional in form. Fourteen line snapshots of cars, sport, tools and modern life sit alongside ruminations on love, death, nature, art and time.
These thought-provoking sonnets, written with a lightness of touch, are accessible to all readers. Wide-ranging in scope and loosely following the pattern of the seasons, His Only Sonnet tells of a whole year viewed through the lens of poetry and song.
Hear Paul Curran discuss poems old and new each week on NCCR with Peter Lewis and Richie 'Jukebox' West - every Tuesday at 8PM: Paul Curran's Poetry Corner
'I enjoyed reading Paul's poems ... for their energy and imagery, and their striking turns of phrase.'
Professor Judith Burdan Flagler College, St Augustine, Florida
'an impressive and life-enhancing mix... in a richly detailed canvas; breezily contemporary'
Roger Pringle Shakespearean, Lecturer, Writer, Publisher, Poet
'the exposed heart of a thoughtful, sensitive, romantic, spiritual man'
F. LaGard Smith author of Out on a Broken Limb, Portrait of an Obama Nanny State, Meeting God in Quiet Places
So V, my luv, Iv Dcided 2 scrpt
4 U, yunga thn me, U quip oftn,
this msg, wrtn in short nt spokn,
in the fashn U want me 2 adopt -
txt-spk @ wch @ bst Im not adept -
& show, in this code wch runs us BtwEn
as lnguage Usd 4 lettrs hndwritn,
my hart. Gd signL, God hlp my @emt!
But lookin 4ward 2 Bing wiv U
whn we mA communic8 wivout wrds -
wiv R held silens hrd loud in R hnds
clearR thn ur noing ur cats mEow -
hapE wiv acceptns & luvs rwards,
makes worthwYl thEs sad blEpng B4hnds
About Time, Too
I can’t tell you how glad I was to find
The watch I lost, fully two days ago,
Before our visit to the casino.
It is the sort one never needs to wind
And I feared I’d gone and left it behind,
Dropped down silently in the snow. I do
Recall, though, some mad dashing to and fro,
As making time had been much on my mind.
But it’s back with me now and counting out
My minutes and seconds and daily hours,
These fleeting years which are not really ours,
This loaned life, vivid and loud as a shout,
Which within, around and over us pours -
So swift - be we sinful, be we devout.