Advice to a Young Prophetess

To my daughters–
Wake up you trope-worn God!—
Won’t pray to you no more. The
Demon’s roamed long enough, the
Intellect’s “certain moment” is up.

Just let the men mete their chambers

Sister—survey vanished points and
Worship awegone cups: damn the
Exact map and letless scene—nature’s

Lobotomy if you ask me. Never mind,

You sashay out the door. You’ve got
That cyan sense that casts Word like
Girih sky—see, your craft is the plot:

What serif—cut from what cloth—won’t do?

Sea of St Giles, Humber via Baltic Archipelago

West veering East—one, two, four
Hear the bells’ full peal
Good maybe becoming poor

Remember the way you wore that tulle

Dress, or chiffon—wore it till it broke—
Wore it till it sighed, spoke, and
Prophesied what the scientist forgot:

To observe the small, cavernous hall.

Picture

The slit in the window

Green psaltery on the wall
Digesting duck cornered
One-fifth stone mass
Registering as sound
Mother’s décor throughout
An icon
Three notes of a triad could be
Die Bildung des Wortes
Machine expressed in English
Sweeping interpreter’s parlour
Glances are like bells
Redhead cries
Silence must be longer
Todo se lo creyó
Feeling into form
Ideas of that hour
Water falls
Velocipede shaking bones
Arabesque at hand
Bows, ties represent
Table’s substance (if any)
Books & cuneiform stacked
Toast in the morning
Distant radio set upon fire
Vessel reading
Faces echo, encounter
ecce virgo written, drawn
Eyes gaze
Mind stuff of the world
 Ah hah. Idou indeed.
“What doest thou here?”

You can’t sever your

Head ‘cause Saharan
Sand covers London too.

Or maybe the space in your head is

Jerusalem’s call. Or maybe you’re here
To eke out or—wirklich—perform
Frenzied magic on some soupçon moan.

See, the world is stitched and patched:

That great sheet knit at four corners folds,
But it’s never taut like that. And the Lost
Jockey? She’s not lost to Optina.

So come, come on in, you ocular boys! Shh—

It’s fine: she wasn’t foretold but she’s here
To usher in the Peripheral Dawn, opaque
Really. No Second Coming.

Jorge, tell me—or Tom:

Where are her robes?
What is her orb and measure? And
Where on earth is her point of view?

There is no Aleph she observes.
There is no Aleph she observes.

Then let us rename, bless: call

You Sibyl or Ma’at, Queen of
The mundane or Khan of those
Menial appearings of the sun.

Look, this god-devil’s deep—deep in

The patina, behind lock and key. If you
Lay prostrate (arms out) ‘cross the
Mosaic you might grasp some weight.

Let them climb the august hill. (What jar.)
Give them the pieced-together mind and
The ampersand to understand.

Meh and Amen.

Don’t worry. I’ll gesture to you like El Greco when it’s time.

teppo felin

Teppo Felin is a Professor at Saïd Business School, University of Oxford. This poem broad-
ly relates to some of his research on the nature of perception and mind (titled “Rational-
ity, Perception, and the All-Seeing Eye”). The title is inspired by Thomas Merton’s poem
Advice to a Young Prophet.

Oxford Magazine   Noughth Week, Trinity Term, 2018   31