29 October, 2015

#GuestPost :: What Inspires Me to Write by Louis Alan Swartz

About the Author:

Louis Alan Swartz has dedicated his life to helping others find their ability as immortal spiritual beings. He has traveled extensively in Africa, India, Europe, and the Middle East. He lives in Los Angeles with Connie, his wife of twenty-eight years. 

What Inspires Me to Write

It is my firm belief that there is a terrific beauty inherent in each individual person. The motivating force behind everything I write is the intention to draw this beauty out, to help him to see his personal magnificence. It is my viewpoint that when a man is able to fully recognize himself as an immortal spiritual being, there are two other things with which he will gain touch.

One is the depth of his own personal aesthetic. This is his ability to create, perceive, and appreciate beauty. It is the special beauty unique to him. This is his own aesthetic. It is available with him and him only. The communication of this aesthetic to others so that they understand it, is probably the senior elation of life.

The other is gaining touch with his own personal divinity. In my viewpoint, his ability to recognize
The Divine begins with him gaining touch with the divinity within him. In my experience, gaining touch with these three aspects elicits an enormous well being, confidence and joy in being alive.

Below are two poems born of the viewpoint expressed here.

On the Day I Gained Certainty That I was a Spirit

On the day I gained certainty that I was
A spirit, the subway went up
Lexington Avenue as it had always done.

Down on Seventh Avenue the
Men still pushed their carts
With bolts of cotton and silk.
The cross town bus still did its
Route on 42nd Street. 

The mannequins
In Macy’s window nearby still stood
Stiffly still as they had always done.

The train to Boston pulled out
Of Grand Central Station. Several
Couples fell in love that day in Central Park. 

 A twelve year old boy found out
About Walt Whitman in the main
Public library at Fifth Avenue
And 42nd Street.

 Big ocean liners were docked
 In the harbor on the West Side
A young man sweetly played
His violin on the corner 
Of 42nd and 8th Avenue. 

The Staten Island Ferry moved
Away from the dock. The diamond
Dealer intently eyed a gem
Through his glass on 47th Street
As he had done for generations.

Uptown on West 86th Street
Near Broadway a sweet old
Woman sighed deeply
And smiled and breathed
Her last breath. A boy child
Was born in Brooklyn.

The taxi drivers weaved
Between the lanes.
Somebody ordered a large
Coffee regular, hold the sugar.

Three teenage boys sang
A cappella* at the corner
Of Willis Avenue and
143rd Street in the South
Bronx .A crowd gathered,
They were magnificent.

In my world all
Was still. Everything
Around me was pervaded
With a calm I do not
Remember ever having experienced.

I felt a love for everyone I
Saw no matter who they were.
I was astounded by
Beauty all around me
Though it was the same
32nd Street, the same
Broadway on which I had
Always walked. 

 I felt a kindness,
A compassion,
A tolerance, an openness,
A hope, a confidence unlike
Anything I had ever known.
And I knew that everything
Was going to be alright, that
All would be well, that
I was ok and that I
Would continue to be ok.
On the day that I gained
Certainty that I was
A Spirit.

* A cappella Without instrumental accompaniment
(Webster's New World College Dictionary)


The actual spirit is neither gossamer* 
nor ethereal* by nature, 
though could be as it wished.
A spirit can be thunderous
as solid and muscular as a Sumo Wrestler 
or as sweet and soft as baby skin,
the wash of dew upon an autumnal meadow 
at dawn.

A spirit can be utterly robust and
in your face.
Belly laughter and drunken
passion, brawling, boisterous 
and strong of lung
in one minute 
and deer silent, delicately quiet
and alert in the next.
Give me an actual spirit
and I’ll give you the world.

He is all that is thrilling on this earth or anywhere
in this universe. He is protest and dissonance
as well as celestial choir harmony and the
songs of angels.

Mule stubborn, gymnast supple, an acrobat, an
eternal clown.

He is first blush.
He is love’s rush.
He’s caring about someone so very much.
He is fresh orchid above young breast
On her lovely prom dress.
He is puppy love and first love
and eternal love.

He is fisherman in a terrible storm
strapped to the mast and hanging on.
He is making steel
with calloused hands.
He is out in the fields
working and sweating and singing song.

He is sudden summer storm,
and sun coming through
and rainbow too.

He is grace of form
and time worn courtesy.
An old, wooden dining table
laden with breakfast’s creation,
early dawn before a hard working day.

He is justice and admiration and keeping
your cool.
He is passion and patience and the first
day of school.

He is piano and cymbal and violin
and marvelously always gets
to come back again.

He is believing what he believes.
He is rainbow colors of autumn leaves.
He is New England winter
with frost on your breath.
He knows only forever,
he doesn’t know death.

*Gossamer—light, thin and filmy. Ethereal very light, airy.
(Webster's New World College Dictionary)

About the Book:

What would life be like if you knew you were an immortal spiritual being? "It is my viewpoint that each man has his own unique magnificence regardless of race, religion, nation, tribe, station in life, customs and beliefs...," so writes poet, Louis Alan Swartz. Constructed of Magic and Other Poems on the Immortality of the Human Spirit is a refreshing collection of poems that explore the beauty of who we are as spiritual beings. Our ability to love, dream, create futures, even die with dignity are all part of who we are and why we are here. These poems don't pretend to give final answers to any of the big questions about life, but they do help us to look and come to our own understanding.