A Poet at the Tower
Ah, what a perfect, golden, autumn day.
The headsman’s brought the bearded ax, I see.
The cocksure ravens strut like popinjays.
The river shimmers like a bright malmsey.
Make haste and strike; let’s have it done, prithee.
The grass, the gentle breeze, the stark white stones,
The dappled colors of the turning trees—
A sight more lovely I have never known.
Mine hour has come at last; I would the ax well-honed.
Sonnet No. 17
Great stone sea arches, reddened by the sun,
Once turquoise waters, now a wine-dark sea.
A wet sand strip lies brushed in shades of dun,
Beneath an overhanging gnarled tree.
The ocean roars and rushes up the beach,
Birds bob like corks upon the rolling tide.
While jumbled seashells lie just out of reach,
A little fleet of boats creaks at dockside.
Out of the mist, the ships loom vast and dark,
A foghorn blares and a great blinding light
Spans the broad ocean in a sweeping arc,
To guide and warn all sailors through the night.
The lovely calm of sunset is no more;
The dark and wild ocean churns offshore.
The Father’s Welcome
Is this, at last, my daughter, home again?
I’ve longed so much to see you one more time,
To hold you close as when you were a babe.
Your bright and golden laughter warms my heart.
All this long while I’ve followed your exploits
As they heaped up like storm clouds in the spring.
They say you’ve driven back the Rouran tribes,
And boldly ridden through their teeming hordes,
And broke their ranks at Heishan with your charge.
Then word arrived the Son of Heaven wished
To make you Chancellor of the Right or Left,
A marquis or a mighty general,
Or raise you to the rank of shangshulang.
I panicked when I first received the news,
And thought my heart might stop within my breast,
Despairing that I’d never see you more.
But when they said you’d soon return to us,
I hurried through the gates to welcome you.
I’ve waited all this time to see your face,
So fresh and lovely as it was that day
I held you in my arms beside the door.
Ah, you’re not quite so small as I recall,
And though your eyes still shine with youthful light,
They carry now a wisdom once unknown.
So lay aside your breastplate and your sword,
Your helmet and your greaves and riding clothes.
Grow out your hair and put on powder now.
Put on the flowing dress you used to wear—
You always were a tomboy, my Mulan.
Michael C. Paul is a writer, illustrator, and historian living in Virginia. His work appears in The Amethyst Review and is forthcoming in The Sunlight Press, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and The Lyric. He is a four-time award winner in the 2026 Poetry Society of Virginia annual contest.
You do have a way with words, Michael. All three poems are lovely.
I am partial to the first with the narrator’s very unusual mindset. He/she
must be a saint. All three poems have beautiful imagery.
Michael, these are three well-honed poems of serious subject matter with excellence classical appeal both of words and rhymes. There is a depth to them that affects the senses.
jd must be correct about the “Poet at the Tower.” Wyatt and Orleans were great poets who spent some time there, but only Saint Sir Thomas More suffered the ax–and joked about it to the end. The ominous scene of Sonnet 17 churns with movement, which is why I like it the best of these. The Mulan welcome moves elsewhere in the cultural cosmos, showing the wide range of your talent, Michael.