Selected Poetry Church Service Easy Chair Life Experience Too Quiet Writing Poetry

Making Sunlight Breathe
The Powerful Gift of Julie Beth Himmelwright

by Sarah Dopp
 

She assembles brilliant stanzas from people and jagged memories. She pours her heart and time into a thriving pop culture magazine. She leads and writes unabashedly, wearing her opinions like a blazing red coat. And when it comes time to order dinner, she knows exactly what she wants: a caramelized banana pecan waffle, a cup of coffee, and a tall glass of milk. Julie Beth Himmelwright presents herself as strong-willed and confident, holding her own in circles of academics, culture buffs, and writers. Yet she describes herself as timid.

The first and only time (thus far) Julie brought her poetry to a microphone, she had to force herself on stage. The scary thought of subjecting a crowd to her words tried to cripple her. But concealing her reluctance, she boldly stepped forward. Her poised, clear voice became a vehicle for her poetry, delivering to a captivated audience. "It's unnatural at first," she says, "but then I feel strong." Julie speaks here out of context, describing not just the poetry reading, but every task in her life that takes resolve.

She takes that strength as far as it can go. A senior at the University of New Hampshire, Julie majors in Creative Writing and minors in Psychology. This semester she is Editor-in-Chief of Main Street Magazine, a Student Press publication at UNH, and has taken that project by storm with her leadership.

She's been a writer since she could hold a pen, and always had an interest in journalism. Growing up, she scribbled every feeling and experience into a diary. In elementary school, she started the Brookside Circle Bugle, a newspaper for her neighborhood. It featured little kid jokes, mom recipes, and household news stories. She published the newspaper in her friend's basement and distributed it for free in mailboxes.

Julie's writing continued in all forms into high school, where she served as sports editor for her school newspaper - the irony being that she knows nothing about sports. But always being up for a challenge, she pressed forward in her career and wrote the best damned football articles she could muster. At the same time, Julie worked in a bookstore, edited a novel, and published her poems in a literary journal. She excelled in class essays and maintained her personal diaries, telling stories in every genre available.

Most of Julie's written history has been destroyed, however. Her own hands ripped apart those precious diaries, page by page. With a slate clean of old styles, she entered college with advanced skill. Now, her writing is characterized with intense imagery, dancing across all those stories she's been telling her whole life.

The few that almost left Earth,
broke eternity's window
like an errant baseball
they tell us, "There was the brightest light
and I was filled with wonder."
The cleanest white light.

Most often, she finds herself writing her biography into her poems. She lingers on stories about relationships, faith, her mother, and the people she meets. The modesty of her topics gives way to powerful subtle details. "There's a lot of power in quiet speech," she says. "Smaller ideas, smaller images -- cause the little details are the true things."

Jeopardy began at eight
and there was a warm spot
for my feet beneath your legs
and my shoulder behind your shoulder

Her inspiration comes from the great ones -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Vincent Van Gogh, and Nick Drake -- and she lets such inspiration strike impulsively. Julie says, "when I need to write something down, I will leave any kind of situation to do so." As a result, some of the most vivid descriptions and powerful feelings come out in her poems. And though it takes courage to put them on paper, she values the poem and her audience enough to make it happen.

You and I, Sugar
we drink to the brains in our heads
to the letters we sent
to the hearts in our chests
and we choose to say it's all been said.

"My work is really simple," says Julie. "It doesn't have an agenda. But I feel like a lot of people connect with it." And sometimes, all she needs to grab her audience is one line:

In the darkness duck sauce splashes.

Julie values the connection between readers and writers so much that she takes her talent beyond her own page. "I love to see people share their work. I think it's amazing," she says. So in addition to forcing herself to share, she also helps others do so the same. In her work at Main Street Magazine, she recruits writers, matches them with the right assignments, and nurtures the writing urge. Offering her experienced eye for feedback, she encourages writers to grow and excel in their writing. She also maintains a fiction column in her publication, providing a widely-read space for student creative writers.

When it comes time to write her editorial each issue, Julie hesitates. "I think women are taught that their opinions are not important," she says. But some incredible story always comes out-be it about killer bees or Japanese men sleeping on a subway-and it always ends with the point she needs to make.

Julie has a gift for words. Julie is a gift for writers. It's no surprise to the people who know her that Julie plans to become a teacher of creative writing. With the rich metaphors and fresh outlooks she has for life, she has no less than pure inspiration to offer. But really, she describes herself best:

I ran around the room, making sunlight breathe.

Church Service

My mother
never did open
that yellow bound bible on her dresser.
She dodged my Jesus questions tidily-
one word or less.

But when she saw the gilded cross
of our home town church
she saw it hope-heavy,
bowing beneath the prayers
of the people.

At night she let me roam
the echoing passageways
as she organized help in the church office:
hot meals, rides to the doctors in Boston,
ice cream socials
to cushion cancer treatment bills.

I knew not to play-
the place pressed down on me.
The pews in the dim sanctuary were empty
the moonlight and the streetlamps 
blurred and spidery on the other side
of the age glass.

With a tissue I wiped the soot
from the scarred white candles.

Easy Chair

Once I was small enough
to perch on the arm of your easy chair
and watch snowflakes gather
on the back porch.

Those chilly nights when I was six
your voice was weary and deep
your bristly moustache
rough and scented with gin and tonics
and dusty with pistachio salt

Jeopardy began at eight
and there was a warm spot
for my feet beneath your legs
and my shoulder behind your shoulder

There was security in knowing
that you would let me drift to sleep
my head against your head
and wait for mom to hustle me to bed.  

Life Experience

I am itching to see St. Basils 
to tour India or
for the thrill of anything far 

from corn fields and cape houses.

The few that almost left Earth,
broke eternity's window
like an errant baseball
they tell us, "There was the brightest light
and I was filled with wonder."
The cleanest white light.

My days have gotten grayer
sleep is my off-switch
but I think I remember wonder.
It's nothing like waiting-room chatter
or half-interest 
or even Finding God.

It's this:
Seventeen years ago
my mother set me down to play
while she did business with a white collared man
at a store counter.
You were three, you too remember--
Aluminum Blinds.
I ran around the room, making sunlight breathe.

Too Quiet

Less light, yes
the pursuit of good is done
and we are left
like children are
when the cookie jar stands alone.

You and I, Sugar
we drink to the brains in our heads
to the letters we sent
to the hearts in our chests
and we choose to say it's all been said.

Less light, yes
You will not give me your eyes
The wine goes warm
I lose my voice
And should something shatter inside,

You and I, Sugar
can blame the spirits that hang on the air:
that knock on the walls
toss your paintings down
and rock the corner chair.

Writing Poetry

At one-twenty
with a head too full for sleep
you seek solace in
sneaking Chinese, barefoot
a cautious ear turned.
You work straight from soggy boxes
in a dim fridge glow:
cold fried rice and cold lo mein are Thinking Foods.

Such confounding late night romps
make your chopstick fingers limber-rooting
out chicken and chestnuts
with instinctive prowess
In the darkness duck sauce splashes.