The HyperTexts
Betty Iacovetti
Betty Iacovetti was an accomplished violinist, string instructor and poet. She graduated from high school at age sixteen with honors, then boarded a
train for NYC, where she attended Julliard, where she had a partial scholarship.
By the fall of that same year, she was given a full
ride to Sherwood Music Conservatory and De Paul University in Chicago. She ended up getting her
Bachelor of Arts in Music from DePaul and a Masters from Sherwood (or it may have been the other way around).
She taught music courses at Fresno State University, Fresno Pacific University, and Fresno City College. She played for many celebrities,
including Nat King Cole (whom she loved), Rod Stewart and Wayne Newton, but unfortunately never had the chance to work with Sinatra. In
addition, she was first chair for the Fresno Opera Association, played with the Fresno Symphony Orchestra, and was a regular for over 20 years
with the Cabrillo Music Festival in Aptos, California. She was also offered
first chair with the Pittsburgh Philharmonic, but because she was married with
children, she chose to decline.
Primavera
I have known an early spring
and walked her faint fringe.
The winter to which I've come
struggles to fill its icy frame
but memory, however lucid, cannot return
to that path where promises stood
like budding trees and I was young
and spring was early.
Life-Style
In fanciful procession,
gay as the song of a fool,
ignoring the tune
when it sounds out of key,
and at night, ignoring
the smell of infinity –
on we go! spending ourselves,
extravagantly!
Eulogy
Our neighbor's son died yesterday
in the war
The same war that isn't ours.
I remember him
loud and lively
and sometimes in the way.
Today we're invited to a picnic.
Trauma
All the clocks were frozen
and night flew
perpetually about
like a plague
of black butterflies.
Raven
I stroked the wings of night
when she was young.
I frilled her beak
with promises
and gently sang her glittered eyes to sleep.
I caress her still—my torment,
though her wings
have grown fierce.
her beak has become
a vigilant slash
and her eyes thieves
who snatched my lullaby away
and buried it deep, deep.
White on White
The grounds are white
where I walk. My face
holds snow
like a chalice.
I am called innocence.
I am sacred and mild.
In worlds beyond memory
I circle, like a child
making tracks,
white on white
echoes as distant
as the winter quiet.
My backward look
looks back at me.
I am blind to where I've been,
blind to where I'll be –
should I stay? Who whispers?
What voice? Which hill?
Whose are these steps?
What somewhat skill
arranges patterns
in shades of light
and guides my feet
to what on white?
Requiescat In Pace
Requiescat in pace!
You, dark thoughts, are lost
to this new day.
Burn, burn out in the blistering sun.
Let it char and shrivel
your miserable remains.
Or lie quiet, if you must,
beneath wood's dead-grey rot;
be stifled, be stilled,
cast no shadow of fear
nor whisper back echoes
to my unwilling ear—
For this day is new,
a new, new day—
Requiescat aeternam
in pace, in pace.
Last Ditch Stand (on the way to a palmist)
I'm on my way to the Palmer
Who will tell me how I can be Calmer;
When I get back,
If I'm still out of whack,
I'll visit the nearest Embalmer.
Chimneys Rising
Chimneys rising
from weathered shingles
reach
toward the unobtainable.
A mood of solitary longing
rises too
seeking answers
from the unremembered.
And a fine line of smoke
writes
fleeting words
across the sky.
Fresno Canal
The canal waters of Fresno
flow tiresomely on,
serving some obscure purpose
for men who make
cement embankments.
Enviously
they recall
their laughing sisters,
mountain streams
who sing a free song
and dance
on icy pebbles.
The canal waters of Fresno
move with murky monotony
to the same end
day after day
and cover souvenirs of civilization,
beer bottles,
a tricycle wheel,
a picture of Schubert.
The Killers
We used to count
coyote pelts
strung in bedraggled array,
barbed-wire fences
of New Mexico
a scaffold for swift
uncivilized sinners.
"Killers!"
cried the ranchers,
and shot
and hung
bloody hides
for buzzards
to circle
and pick.
The lamb is tender,
the roast-beef lean—
but I remember those killers.
I remember those innocent killers
and I wonder who,
someday,
will hang our hides
on a barbed-wire fence
and count?
Send Me Lightly On My Way
(From Lost Lake)
Send me lightly on my way
For my journey is a far one.
My coward soul has stayed too long
In memories' cathedral.
My eyes have wept, are weeping now,
Clothe your naked eyes
And look not sorrowing to see me grieve,
Be deaf to all my sighs.
Do not touch me as I pass,
Raise your hand but slightly,
Send me lightly on my way,
Send me lightly, lightly.
Send me lightly on my way
Give no gift at parting
To weigh upon me heavily
Or cause my steps to lag.
Your silent words keep silent then
To fill the empty space
And send your thoughts beyond my thoughts,
Your gaze beyond my gaze.
For the end of your look
Is my journey's end; I must haste to find
Send me lightly on my way,
Send me lightly, lightly.
Noon-Ghost
Night's opposite world
where light is illusion
and noontimes come to die,
around my noon
has curved an oblong eye.
I weep for her,
my noon;
her merry dance.
In her smile bloomed
the flower of my chance.
Would I had thanked her!
So fast she whirled
to wispy white!
How may I thank a noon-ghost
locked into the night?
Sanctity
A certain sanctity comes
with keeping to a rule.
our rule is that of small talk;
we hold strictly to it and tool,
like skillful artisans,
winter's noon with trifles.
Though I feel your agony sharpening
beneath my casual touch,
I smile
and stroke a new lie
along life's faithless mantle.
castles in exile
orators, speak!
of departing dreams,
speak ringingly!
fancy's towers
are too grand
to be mumbled away.
set upon new land,
like exiled castles
they stand
near wagons and wire,
their spires piercing
an inappropriate sky.
When The Valley Is All In Fog
When the valley is all in fog
my steps fall singly
as unrelated questions, my breath
mingles with the circling quiet.
Through the pale elusive moment,
a stranger's home drifts past;
like a dream it appears
and in the fog we touch.
For that small time, like lovers,
we belong only to each other.
Wagon in Winter
Seasons are impermanent;
today is only today.
When spring returns
someone will fill me
with blossoms or hay. I'll roll
past the present chill,
the barren trees, fogged-in houses,
chimneys of steaming clay.
When my boards dry
and the sky begins to smile
I'll go to work again. The chimneys
will be idle and spend
their quiet time watching me
move hills of flowers
away from winter cold.
Insomnia
Four a.m. can't be as late as it seems—or as early!
a timeless drop of eternity is four a.m.
unbound by earthly label of time it hangs by a thread of nothingness
and recognizes nothing; not even sleep!
Everyone Listen
All Take Note
the president
has been smiling
since last may,
smiling through
every difficult day,
smiling and smiling
even when
those bad Watergate
committee men
forced him to
publically reprimand
his top and coolest
aides. and when his vice
(president) left him alone
to splice all the tapes
and tap-tap the phone,
there was no complaining,
not the slightest moan.
oh I find it sweet
and incredibly dear,
our fearless leader
making things perfectly clear.
and it's heartening
I say, to see thirty-two
pearls of encouragement
glowing at me and you.
The HyperTexts