Poetry Dedication Project By Ksenia Dachkevitch

A Letter to My MomMy dearest mother. I’m dedicating this project to you as a token of my appreciation towards you and the things you’ve done for this family. You and Dad have had a great impact on my writing capabilities, and I couldn’t be more thankful of you both for inspiring me and pulling me through many hard times and troubles. As such, though I’m not much of a poet, I’ve come to appreciate the basic elements and became all the more motivated to explore what I liked in particular about poetry, odes, etc. It’s worth noting that much of that satisfaction is also evident whenever I’m writing ballads and haikus. Whether its wordplay, just the rhythm that coincides with each rhyme, or perhaps the overall meaning, poetry is a form of self expression – like drawing, singing, and writing had been to me – a language of the soul, so to speak. So without further delay, I shall present first five poems which I feel reached out to me the most. From there on out, I’ll also be presenting my own poetry. I hope you’ll enjoy these and find a special place in your heart for them. Above all, I wish to thank you for everything.

Nature’s Way (a haiku)Why must a life passUnder such bitter extremesIt makes my heart cry

Soul and mind apartTorn between the sharp edgesIt drives me insane

Hidden behind glassSo close yet so far in dreamsPlease don’t say goodbye

In death must we partAnd pass on to the agesShame you died in pain

Having death existSurely it is nature’s wayTo make me so sad

Fight for your LifeLife had always set in stone,

Different methods to atone -

For the sins that ruined lives,

Before the lofty Devil arrives.

We will soon all pay for our misdeeds,

He’ll wipe us out like we do with weeds;

And those who laugh will fail the test,

When he decides to kill the rest.

But the Lord is forgiving, though he shows up late

For goodness comes to those who wait;

Life is a struggle, it tests our will,

For what’s good life if time stood still?

The wisest yearn to stay alive,

No matter what, one must survive;

To rebuild life is no small task,

Especially for the one behind the mask.

To the Morn and to JulyOh sweet Blake, come out to playThe sun isn’t going to be out all daySoon night should arise, and children layIn their beds, after yesterday

With the stars appearing in the sky,All I know is the end is nighTo the morn and to JulyVanish with one calm final sigh

Now Blake, if in your bed you’ll stay,This ponderous day shall waste away.But because you’re tired, I won’t ask whyYou’d let such a good day pass by.

The Bard and the GypsyOnce was a bard most jolly and fine,His ballads quiet pleasant and rather divine,He brought out joy from the crowd,And it made his friends proud,But the bard could only just whine. Life was good, he agreed – but had to malign,That his career choice would grant him the chance to

shine,He liked dancing and prancing and this was a fact,But it was all just an act,And it made him feel like a swine. Then one day came hither a gypsy to dine,At the campfire where he sat, and asked for some wine;Before he knew it, the bard’s sadness was gone,Bit by bit, he dazed on –As though God sent a sign. He stood up and he thought – “Could she truly be mine?”She would probably decline, but he had to opine!From the look on her face, he understood she’s the one,For him, she was the sun,His whole life was redefined! 

The gypsy looked up, her eyes glowing like fire,And the bard’s heart rose with overwhelming desire.He knelt to one knee, said – “Sweet and miraculous dame–Won’t you tell me your name?”And he pulled out a lyre. Her name she did say, and the bard sang it loud,And for once in his life, he felt very proud.It wasn’t an act, his feelings were true,If only she knew,How much for him she’d endowed. So a song in her honor he had played,And soon she first - and the others joined in a parade.A spark crept within her, and the gypsy understood,What had brought the bard’s good,And what it conveyed. In the end, the two were inspired and worked together at last,All the bad times before were left in the past.The bard and the gypsy danced all through the night,They saw in each other such light,And since then – it was vast.

The Curse of a Vampire

Delicate skin, most transparent and greyAmbiguous identity, mysterious preyObtuse though she may be – appeals to the kinUndoable – sure, but rich with serenity She is not truly human, as stated beforeThough close she may be, deep in her coreRuns the blood of a predator and it sets her domainAs a gorgeous young creature, with no love or empathy It doesn’t matter who it is, she will attract those she likes,When one’s heart does feel bare, that’s her time to strikeThough as gentle she looks – her weapon’s a kissWhere she’ll bite and she’ll fight without even a care 

Her words are like poison, dangerous but sweetThey don’t see her coming; they just fall to their feetAnd so does she bite their necks and leaves small marks of crimson,Lose too much, then they fall, best case yet, they’re just dreaming That is her curse, to drain blood to surviveShe will call all the men, and their trust is her striveOnce done, she will leave, and to make matters worse,If she still remains thirsty, she will try it again! Pity you may, but her fate had been sealedIf she were ever once caught, she would be revealedAs a vampire whose only escape is decay,The hunt is her life, since to stop - she cannot.

What I established with these poems:Much of what I originally strove for when writing these poems was to make them

rhyme in a consistent and whimsical manner. Usually, I’d prefer to write stories in the form of a ballad due to my lust and taste for music. I feel that music brings life, and as such, I tried to bring that out with my rhyming style; but I also wanted to have fun with what I was doing too, so I tried to cover simple topics regarding stuff from my current mood to a particular perspective on life.

Such an example is a haiku I wrote that was constructed based on my experiences during a family loss. I wrote it from the perspective of a wife who had been widowed after the death of her husband and tried to capture the same melancholy feel one gets during a state of depression. A haiku typically doesn’t require rhyming but follows a simple 5 by 7 by 5 syllable structure, and given the hopeless feeling I tried to emphasize in the haiku, I felt that structure was necessary in terms of its context. Fight for your Life was a slightly more optimistic and religious poem I wrote which followed an AABB rhyming pattern. It focused on essential themes like what makes life worth living and how making mistakes, struggling through various experiences, and ultimately growing wise from them can make all the difference to understanding one’s purpose in the universe. Considering it was written after my haiku, this thought process serves as a symbol of hope to overcoming the stress that came from depression.

(continued)…To the Morn and to July follows a similar theme, although it is handled in a more subtle fashion and with a slightly different approach to the topic in general. The idea was that some things in life aren’t worth missing, and the ending to the morning and the month of July symbolized a passing experience. It’s in my belief that children should handle what little time they have as kids carefully, because such times can’t possibly last forever. The sad news is that kids won’t realize the importance of this until later in life, and the last lines in the poem basically strayed on the idea that Blake had an excuse for missing out on a good day. Whatever’s the reason is left up to interpretation.The next poem - and possibly my overall favorite - is The Bard and the Gypsy, which was an example of my rhythmic style being applied to the poetry. To summarize the story, a bard questions his purpose in life and redefines it when he is inspired by a gypsy and ultimately falls in love with her. A romantic setup, of course – but while it was a rushed romance, I think the message came out a lot stronger because it applied to my feelings towards the opposite sex as of yet. I feel I could recover from my emo corner when I’d start building new relationships with other people. This is especially true with guys, since I’ve reached the appropriate age to think about them.

(continued)…

Finally, there’s the Curse of a Vampire, which focused on the tragedy that is the very nature of vampires (from a feminine perspective). It wasn’t in any way inspired by the Twilight franchise mind you, but it was a demonstration of what makes a vampire threatening and what makes it a pathetic piece of nature that is often pitied. I see their nature like a curse. Sure, they get to climb walls like pros, turn into bats, and live forever, but the consequences are disastrous and they seem no more vulnerable than an average human being, if not more. Vampires have a different perspective on life given their immortality. They are likewise – more charming, educated, and possibly depressed, which is why their victims are typically of the opposite sex. They now have to feast off blood, which – for a vampire, requires having a bathtub’s worth of blood everyday in order to survive (which is hard to come by unless you invite 20 people to your mansion like Dracula). On top of that, they can’t walk in the sunlight or their skin burns off (or they become transparent – and thus easy target practice for hunters). In short, I wanted to express my sympathy towards vampires without essentially making them less dangerous or a total woobie.

Annabel Lee | Edgar Allen PoeIt was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of ANNABEL LEE;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,In this kingdom by the sea;But we loved with a love that was more than love-I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee;So that her highborn kinsman cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me-Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud by night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we-Of many far wiser than we-And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Poetry Summary:This poem is considered a classic and for good reason. With Edgar Allan Poe being one of the most famous writers of his time, it’s hard to ignore his contributions to literary culture as a whole. This one in particular, happens to be one of my favorites. I remember reading Annabel Lee back when I was still in Middle School, and it was a rather poignant (if not a little grim and creepy) piece of work that I feel reflects Poe’s melancholy nature.So what’s the poem about? It’s a story about young love and commitment, and also a bit of tragedy. The speaker starts the poem off with a memory of his lost love, Annabel Lee. Although the two were just kids, they shared a bond unlike any other and were unbelievably close. The speaker describes their love as one that even angels would be jealous of, and considering what ultimately happens to Annabel in the end, he chooses to blame them for his loss. Apparently his girlfriend got sick from a chill brought down by the wind and eventually died. Upon death, her relatives took her body away and sealed it in a tomb. What makes the conclusion of this poem so tragic is despite everything, the speaker isn’t willing to give up on her and refuses to allow death, angels, or demons to separate them. He loves her to such an extent where all he does is dream about her and see her everywhere like in the stars. It reaches to such a point where he even visits her tomb every night to sleep beside her.The poem reminds me of Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet in a way, as it captures in a similar fashion the tragedy of young love and how passionate and destructive it truly can be. In the speaker’s case, it was the loss of his girlfriend at such a young age that drove him to a state of insanity. In the end, it’s also a tad ironic and romantic in a sense, because it’s rare for commitment such as this to come around and take control of a person’s life.

Television | Roald DahlThe most important thing we've learned,

So far as children are concerned,Is never, NEVER, NEVER letThem near your television set --Or better still, just don't installThe idiotic thing at all.In almost every house we've been,We've watched them gaping at the screen.They loll and slop and lounge about,And stare until their eyes pop out.(Last week in someone's place we sawA dozen eyeballs on the floor.)They sit and stare and stare and sitUntil they're hypnotized by it,Until they're absolutely drunkWith all that shocking ghastly junk.Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,They don't climb out the window sill,They never fight or kick or punch,They leave you free to cook the lunchAnd wash the dishes in the sink --But did you ever stop to think,To wonder just exactly whatThis does to your beloved tot?IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLINDHE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTANDA FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!

'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,'But if we take the set away,What shall we do to entertainOur darling children? Please explain!'We'll answer this by asking you,'What used the darling ones to do?'How used they keep themselves contentedBefore this monster was invented?'Have you forgotten? Don't you know?We'll say it very loud and slow:THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,AND READ and READ, and then proceedTo READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!One half their lives was reading books!The nursery shelves held books galore!Books cluttered up the nursery floor!And in the bedroom, by the bed,More books were waiting to be read!Such wondrous, fine, fantastic talesOf dragons, gypsies, queens, and whalesAnd treasure isles, and distant shoresWhere smugglers rowed with muffled oars,And pirates wearing purple pants,And sailing ships and elephants,And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,Stirring away at something hot.(It smells so good, what can it be?Good gracious, it's Penelope.)

Television | Roald Dahl (continued)

The younger ones had Beatrix PotterWith Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-Just How The Camel Got His Hump,And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-Oh, books, what books they used to know,Those children living long ago!So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,Go throw your TV set away,And in its place you can installA lovely bookshelf on the wall.Then fill the shelves with lots of books,Ignoring all the dirty looks,The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,And children hitting you with sticks-Fear not, because we promise youThat, in about a week or twoOf having nothing else to do,They'll now begin to feel the needOf having something to read.And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!You watch the slowly growing joyThat fills their hearts. They'll grow so keenThey'll wonder what they'd ever seenIn that ridiculous machine,That nauseating, foul, unclean,Repulsive television screen!And later, each and every kidWill love you more for what you did.

Poetry Summary:Roald Dahl was a children’s book author born in Wales in 1916. He’s well known for having wrote some classic children’s books like James and the Giant Peach and Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. Outside of writing books, Dahl was also a poet and made it his quirk that added a both humorous and truthful vibe to his works. Television is a poem I quickly grew to enjoy for how seriously it was driving its message, and also for its flow that keeps the reader’s attention. It’s especially funny too, given the tone Dahl perceives as he tries to explain to parents why Television is harmful for children. Although television might not be the most harmful force on children’s minds today (because the internet has kindly taken up the role instead), it’s rather refreshing reading through Dahl’s poem just by how he describes the terrible things television can do. First, it’s as addicting as a drug – and given the fact most of my childhood consisted of television, Dahl isn’t too far off on this argument. Second, it brainwashes children to the extent they become hypnotized by the flashing imagery. Too much television can often lead to laziness and sometimes even headaches every once in a while. The poem has a positive message to build up to though, and it’s one that encourages children to read. Reading is something that helps children concentrate without necessarily breaking the mind in a way. It also allows the children to use their imaginations and have just as much fun. As a kid, doing lots of reading actually helped me in terms of writing, and given the author’s perspective on the matter (and also his career choice), I’d say he makes a great statement. He was born at a time where television was non-existent, and it turn he still found ways of being entertained without relying on technology.

THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.'

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

The Highwayman |Alfred Noyes (continued)

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching— Marching—marching— King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! 'Now, keep good watch!' and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

The Highwayman |Alfred Noyes (continued)

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding— Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

The Highwayman |Alfred Noyes (continued)

Poetry Summary:Part of the reason I love writing ballads so much is that I was occasionally inspired by Alfred Noyes’ work. This poem is notably the most famous of his ballads and to this day, I still see it as something beautiful and a little nostalgic because this was something that was read to me during my early childhood.

The Highwayman is a wonderful ballad in particular with an interesting narrative about a highwayman and an innkeeper’s daughter named Bess who are in a relationship together. The style is very traditional for this poem too, as the rhyming pattern is both simple and goes by an AABCCB style for each stanza. It’s consistent and as such allows for a decent flow in the text.So basically, the couple would often meet every night to share a kiss, and then he’d go doing some thievery work of some sort and promise to come back the next evening. Course, the poem takes an unfortunate turn when instead of the highwayman, British soldiers arrive, take Bess captive, drink booze, and wait for the highwayman to show up so they can kill him. Bess is tied to the bed at that point, but she’s got a gun by her chest, so she uses it to shoot herself as a means of alerting the highwayman of the ambush. It’s sad to say this sacrifice proves useless considering the highwayman gets killed anyway, however he does get the warning, but is unable to escape his faith. The ballad ends with a rather bittersweet ending where the highwayman and Bess still meet one another as ghosts during winter nights. It’s a pretty neat twist to have the ballad turn into a ghost story though, since the tone of the piece was established to be a romantic tragedy at best.

Suicide in the Trenches | Siegfried SassoonI knew a simple soldier boy

Who grinned at life in empty joy,Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,With crumps and lice and lack of rum,He put a bullet through his brain.No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eyeWho cheer when soldier lads march by,Sneak home and pray you'll never knowThe hell where youth and laughter go.

Poetry Summary:Now here’s a poet that knew how to capture the harsh tone and descriptive details of war and its effects on the youth. The strength that comes from this Siegfried Sassoon piece is how effectively he carries out the impression of horror in war, particularly through the stanza structure and how upbeat the poem starts out. It starts with a boy who is naïve and carefree in nature. He lives a quiet life with no worries and free of death and misery that war would bring. The boy represents the lives of those who were lost in war and are now at peace. The second stanza is where that boy is officially pulled out of his comfort zone and into a world of unpleasant living conditions and a depressing environment. The result is a huge weight on the boy’s psyche, and he finally shoots himself to be free from such terrible circumstances. It’s a quick and instantaneous way to go, but his death was forgotten about, much like many of those who died during a war. The third stanza is the most powerful of the stanzas given Siegfried’s blunt and straightforward speech. He reflects on how war had been built on the same ignorance and naïve nature as the boy had started in the first stanza, and also how war had broken the lives of many people who fought and lived to tell the tale about it. It’s truly something no one should be given the chance to experience, but the idea of what war is should not be forgotten either, lest it demeans the sacrifice of those who did die on the battlefield.

A Poison Tree | William BlakeI was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,Night and morning with my tears;And I sunned it with smiles,And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,Till it bore an apple bright.And my foe beheld it shine.And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stoleWhen the night had veiled the pole;In the morning glad I seeMy foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Poetry SummaryWhat I like about A Poison Tree is that it is a metaphor that handles a subject regarding anger management issues. From the start of the poem, the speaker has anger towards his friend, and he expresses it openly. However, we angry towards an enemy, he keeps his rage hidden and allows it to grow to the point where it becomes – just as the title built up – a poisonous tree. Later, his enemy steals an apple from the tree and ends up presumably dead after eating it, much to the speaker’s delight. The paradox behind this poem is that this is not as pleasant a situation as the speaker might believe. Anger can build to a point it can effectively destroy a person, albeit an enemy. It’s basically teaching the moral that through emotional expression and healthy communication, it would serve as a simple method of resolving a conflict. This is also why the speaker’s friend’s inclusion in the poem was important. He didn’t want to be treated badly by someone he cared about, so explained his situation to his friend and it ended up resolving everything.

My Bibliography Edgar Allan Poe. Annabel Lee.

<http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174151>. Dahl, Roald. Television.

<http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/television/>. Noyes, Alfred, and Charles Nikolaycak. The Highwayman. New

York: LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD BOOKS, Print. Sassoon, Siegfried. Suicide in the Trenches.

<http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/suicide-in-the-trenches/>. Blake, William. A Poison Tree.

<http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poison-tree/>. baby_w-glasses.jpg. N.d. Photograph. usborne-books.comWeb.

<http://www.usborne-books.com/grapics/baby_w-glasses.jpg>. night.gif. N.d. Photograph. 4.bp.blogspot.comWeb.

<http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kfVfoFpTIcM/T-kEeUB41fI/AAAAAAAAA0U/YajIO83k4wE/s1600/night.gif>.

153406-vampires-vampire.jpg. N.d. Photograph. stuffpoint.comWeb. <http://stuffpoint.com/vampires/image/153406-vampires-vampire.jpg>.