Poetry Dedication Project By Ksenia Dachkevitch
A Letter to My MomMy dearest mother. I’m dedicating this project to you as a tokenof my appreciation towards you and the things you’ve done forthis family. You and Dad have had a great impact on my writingcapabilities, and I couldn’t be more thankful of you both forinspiring me and pulling me through many hard times andtroubles.As such, though I’m not much of a poet, I’ve come to appreciatethe basic elements and became all the more motivated toexplore what I liked in particular about poetry, odes, etc. It’sworth noting that much of that satisfaction is also evidentwhenever I’m writing ballads and haikus. Whether its wordplay,just the rhythm that coincides with each rhyme, or perhaps theoverall meaning, poetry is a form of self expression – likedrawing, singing, and writing had been to me – a language of thesoul, so to speak. So without further delay, I shall present firstfive poems which I feel reached out to me the most. From thereon out, I’ll also be presenting my own poetry. I hope you’ll enjoythese and find a special place in your heart for them. Above all, Iwish to thank you for everything.
Nature’s Way (a haiku)Why must a life passUnder such bitter extremesIt makes my heart crySoul and mind apartTorn between the sharp edgesIt drives me insaneHidden behind glassSo close yet so far in dreamsPlease don’t say goodbyeIn death must we partAnd pass on to the agesShame you died in painHaving 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 lateFor 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 yesterdayWith the stars appearing in the sky,All I know is the end is nighTo the morn and to JulyVanish with one calm final sighNow 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 toshine,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 VampireDelicate skin, most transparent and greyAmbiguous identity, mysterious preyObtuse though she may be – appeals to the kinUndoable – sure, but rich with serenityShe 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 empathyIt 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 careHer 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 dreamingThat 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 themrhyme in a consistent and whimsical manner. Usually, I’d prefer to write storiesin the form of a ballad due to my lust and taste for music. I feel that music bringslife, and as such, I tried to bring that out with my rhyming style; but I also wantedto have fun with what I was doing too, so I tried to cover simple topics regardingstuff from my current mood to a particular perspective on life.Such an example is a haiku I wrote that was constructed based on myexperiences during a family loss. I wrote it from the perspective of a wife whohad been widowed after the death of her husband and tried to capture the samemelancholy feel one gets during a state of depression. A haiku typically doesn’trequire rhyming but follows a simple 5 by 7 by 5 syllable structure, and given thehopeless feeling I tried to emphasize in the haiku, I felt that structure wasnecessary in terms of its context. Fight for your Life was a slightly moreoptimistic and religious poem I wrote which followed an AABB rhyming pattern. Itfocused on essential themes like what makes life worth living and how makingmistakes, struggling through various experiences, and ultimately growing wisefrom them can make all the difference to understanding one’s purpose in theuniverse. Considering it was written after my haiku, this thought process servesas 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 amore subtle fashion and with a slightly different approach to the topic ingeneral. The idea was that some things in life aren’t worth missing, and theending 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 kidscarefully, because such times can’t possibly last forever. The sad news is thatkids won’t realize the importance of this until later in life, and the last lines inthe poem basically strayed on the idea that Blake had an excuse for missingout 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. Tosummarize the story, a bard questions his purpose in life and redefines it whenhe 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 alot stronger because it applied to my feelings towards the opposite sex as ofyet. I feel I could recover from my emo corner when I’d start building newrelationships with other people. This is especially true with guys, since I’vereached the appropriate age to think about them.
(continued)…Finally, there’s the Curse of a Vampire, which focused on the tragedythat is the very nature of vampires (from a feminine perspective). Itwasn’t in any way inspired by the Twilight franchise mind you, but it wasa demonstration of what makes a vampire threatening and what makesit a pathetic piece of nature that is often pitied. I see their nature like acurse. Sure, they get to climb walls like pros, turn into bats, and liveforever, but the consequences are disastrous and they seem no morevulnerable than an average human being, if not more. Vampires have adifferent perspective on life given their immortality. They are likewise –more charming, educated, and possibly depressed, which is why theirvictims are typically of the opposite sex. They now have to feast offblood, which – for a vampire, requires having a bathtub’s worth of bloodeveryday in order to survive (which is hard to come by unless you invite20 people to your mansion like Dracula). On top of that, they can’t walkin the sunlight or their skin burns off (or they become transparent – andthus easy target practice for hunters). In short, I wanted to express mysympathy towards vampires without essentially making them lessdangerous 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 mayknowBy the name of ANNABEL LEE;And this maiden she lived with no otherthoughtThan 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 thanlove-I and my Annabel Lee;With a love that the winged seraphs ofheavenCoveted 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 medreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise but I feel the brighteyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling- my darling- my life and mybride,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 ofthe most famous writers of his time, it’s hard to ignore his contributions to literary cultureas a whole. This one in particular, happens to be one of my favorites. I remember readingAnnabel Lee back when I was still in Middle School, and it was a rather poignant (if not alittle 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 oftragedy. 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 wereunbelievably close. The speaker describes their love as one that even angels would bejealous of, and considering what ultimately happens to Annabel in the end, he chooses toblame them for his loss. Apparently his girlfriend got sick from a chill brought down by thewind and eventually died. Upon death, her relatives took her body away and sealed it in atomb.What makes the conclusion of this poem so tragic is despite everything, the speaker isn’twilling 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 hereverywhere like in the stars. It reaches to such a point where he even visits her tomb everynight to sleep beside her.The poem reminds me of Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet in a way, as it captures in asimilar fashion the tragedy of young love and how passionate and destructive it truly canbe. In the speaker’s case, it was the loss of his girlfriend at such a young age that drovehim to a state of insanity. In the end, it’s also a tad ironic and romantic in a sense, becauseit’s rare for commitment such as this to come around and take control of a person’s life.
Television | Roald DahlThe most important thing weve learned,So far as children are concerned,Is never, NEVER, NEVER letThem near your television set --Or better still, just dont installThe idiotic thing at all.In almost every house weve been,Weve watched them gaping at the screen.They loll and slop and lounge about,And stare until their eyes pop out.(Last week in someones place we sawA dozen eyeballs on the floor.)They sit and stare and stare and sitUntil theyre hypnotized by it,Until theyre absolutely drunkWith all that shocking ghastly junk.Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,They dont 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 ANDFREEZE!HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!All right! youll cry. All right! youll say,But if we take the set away,What shall we do to entertainOur darling children? Please explain!Well 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? Dont you know?Well say it very loud and slow:THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! Theyd READ andREAD,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, its 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,Theres 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,Theyll 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. Theyll grow so keenTheyll wonder what theyd 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 knownfor having wrote some classic children’s books like James and the Giant Peachand Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. Outside of writing books, Dahl was also apoet and made it his quirk that added a both humorous and truthful vibe to hisworks. Television is a poem I quickly grew to enjoy for how seriously it wasdriving its message, and also for its flow that keeps the reader’s attention. It’sespecially funny too, given the tone Dahl perceives as he tries to explain toparents why Television is harmful for children. Although television might not bethe most harmful force on children’s minds today (because the internet haskindly taken up the role instead), it’s rather refreshing reading through Dahl’spoem just by how he describes the terrible things television can do. First, it’s asaddicting as a drug – and given the fact most of my childhood consisted oftelevision, Dahl isn’t too far off on this argument. Second, it brainwasheschildren to the extent they become hypnotized by the flashing imagery. Toomuch television can often lead to laziness and sometimes even headachesevery once in a while.The poem has a positive message to build up to though, and it’s one thatencourages children to read. Reading is something that helps childrenconcentrate without necessarily breaking the mind in a way. It also allows thechildren to use their imaginations and have just as much fun. As a kid, doing lotsof reading actually helped me in terms of writing, and given the author’sperspective on the matter (and also his career choice), I’d say he makes a greatstatement. He was born at a time where television was non-existent, and it turnhe still found ways of being entertained without relying on technology.
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gustytrees,The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudyseas,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.Hed a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch oflace 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 thethigh!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 darkinn-yard,And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all waslocked and barred;He whistled a tune to the window, and who should bewaiting thereBut the landlords black-eyed daughter,Bess, the landlords daughter,Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicketcreakedWhere Tim the ostler listened; his face was whiteand peaked;His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair likemouldy hay,But he loved the landlords daughter,The landlords red-lipped daughter,Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard therobber say—One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, Im after a prize to-night,But I shall be back with the yellow gold before themorning light;Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me throughthe day,Then look for me by moonlight,Watch for me by moonlight,Ill come to thee by moonlight, though hell shouldbar the way.He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce couldreach her hand,But she loosened her hair i the casement! His faceburnt like a brandAs the black cascade of perfume came tumblingover 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, andgalloped 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 gypsys ribbon, looping the purple moor,A red-coat troop came marching—Marching—marching—King Georges 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 hernarrow 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 wouldride.They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath herbreast!Now, keep good watch! and they kissed her.She heard the dead man say—Look for me by moonlight;Watch for me by moonlight;Ill 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 crawledby 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 lovesrefrain .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 nothear?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 andstill!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 herdeath.He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stoodBowed, with her head oer the musket, drenched with her own redblood!Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hearHow Bess, the landlords daughter,The landlords black-eyed daughter,Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in thedarkness 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 brandishedhigh!Blood-red were his spurs i the golden noon; wine-red was hisvelvet 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 athis throat.And still of a winters 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 thereBut the landlords black-eyed daughter,Bess, the landlords 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 occasionallyinspired by Alfred Noyes’ work. This poem is notably the most famous of hisballads and to this day, I still see it as something beautiful and a little nostalgicbecause this was something that was read to me during my early childhood.The Highwayman is a wonderful ballad in particular with an interesting narrativeabout a highwayman and an innkeeper’s daughter named Bess who are in arelationship together. The style is very traditional for this poem too, as therhyming 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 thenhe’d go doing some thievery work of some sort and promise to come back thenext evening. Course, the poem takes an unfortunate turn when instead of thehighwayman, British soldiers arrive, take Bess captive, drink booze, and wait forthe highwayman to show up so they can kill him. Bess is tied to the bed at thatpoint, but she’s got a gun by her chest, so she uses it to shoot herself as ameans of alerting the highwayman of the ambush.It’s sad to say this sacrifice proves useless considering the highwayman getskilled anyway, however he does get the warning, but is unable to escape hisfaith. The ballad ends with a rather bittersweet ending where the highwaymanand Bess still meet one another as ghosts during winter nights. It’s a pretty neattwist to have the ballad turn into a ghost story though, since the tone of the piecewas established to be a romantic tragedy at best.
Suicide in the Trenches | Siegfried SassoonI knew a simple soldier boyWho 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 youll never knowThe hell where youth and laughter go.
Poetry Summary:Now here’s a poet that knew how to capture the harsh tone and descriptivedetails of war and its effects on the youth. The strength that comes from thisSiegfried Sassoon piece is how effectively he carries out the impression ofhorror in war, particularly through the stanza structure and how upbeat the poemstarts out.It starts with a boy who is naïve and carefree in nature. He lives a quiet life withno worries and free of death and misery that war would bring. The boyrepresents 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 zoneand 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 tobe free from such terrible circumstances. It’s a quick and instantaneous way togo, but his death was forgotten about, much like many of those who died duringa war.The third stanza is the most powerful of the stanzas given Siegfried’s blunt andstraightforward speech. He reflects on how war had been built on the sameignorance and naïve nature as the boy had started in the first stanza, and alsohow war had broken the lives of many people who fought and lived to tell thetale about it. It’s truly something no one should be given the chance toexperience, but the idea of what war is should not be forgotten either, lest itdemeans 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 thetree.
Poetry SummaryWhat I like about A Poison Tree is that it is a metaphor thathandles a subject regarding anger management issues. Fromthe start of the poem, the speaker has anger towards his friend,and he expresses it openly. However, we angry towards anenemy, he keeps his rage hidden and allows it to grow to thepoint where it becomes – just as the title built up – a poisonoustree. Later, his enemy steals an apple from the tree and ends uppresumably dead after eating it, much to the speaker’s delight.The paradox behind this poem is that this is not as pleasant asituation as the speaker might believe. Anger can build to a pointit can effectively destroy a person, albeit an enemy. It’s basicallyteaching the moral that through emotional expression andhealthy communication, it would serve as a simple method ofresolving a conflict. This is also why the speaker’s friend’sinclusion in the poem was important. He didn’t want to be treatedbadly by someone he cared about, so explained his situation tohis 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. NewYork: 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>.