A lyricist since the age of ten, and a hobbyist critic of literature since the age of eleven, I would not compose my first production of poetry until the summer season of 2004. It had been hotter than July on that day as I sat indoors under the air conditioner, drinking ice cold lemonade and thinking. I thought about a lot of things: work, family, friends, what I planned to eat for dinner that evening, etc. And after some time, my right hand began to itch. That's a figure of speech I tend to use where it refers to my deisre to write. So, my right hand started itching to write, and having all of my supplies within reach, including my notebook paper, my beloved Montblanc Bohème, my mini recorder, and, of course, a good ol' pack of chewing gum, I went about my business of scribbling.

Initially doodling, I started getting somwhere as the words came into being. The "flow of the faucet" had gone from a trickle to a stream, and I was now structuring. But the story being formed had cruised along the lines of a poetic stanza rather than a melodic lyrical verse. And under the circumstances, I knew that the work would be one of poetry, not music. There had been no orchestration of melody in correspondence to the words, only a rhythmic stanza — the colorful body of a poetic production emerging from the creative womb.

The written word about which I speak would eventually be titled "Sylvia." The piece is one that serves to pay tribute to the loving memory of my great-grandmother Sylvia Hart — the Grand Dame.

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