Anastasia Sara Kaufman

Anastasia Sara Kaufman

Monday, December 12, 2011


Giro lo stilo della mia coppa
frammenti della luce di candela
si estendono atraverso il vino
illuminando la punta
delle dita in rosso
sparsi come sussurri di lussuria
colti sulla punto della mia lingua

Spinning the stem of my glass
Fragments of the candlelight
reach through the wine,
Illuminating the tips
of my fingers in red
Scattered Like whispered lust
Caught on my tongue

Thursday, December 8, 2011

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
--Elizabeth Bishop

Friday, October 21, 2011

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Skeleton poems

Written by ASK, Lorenze, Adriana, Ashley


Grey clouds sweep over the Arno

I think this paper will show communication is a comfortable illusion

Material things, like diamond rings,

My stomach is empty but my heart is full

And we never-

You leave me messages in the shape of sounds and

the end is near, we’re getting close…

I am content.

2. Surrender

I’d like to grow old with

You- are the color I see in darkness

Beautiful- thoughts twist and undulate like

Waves- and their silver shade on the shade

And- by bus or train, or even in the

Rain- washes the past, leaving me renewed

Breath, so sweet, I breathe you

Deep, blue of a sunless sea during a

Storm, clouds chase us away

When, suddenly I’m not alone

We, surrender.


The building that’s facing me is falling


Where I’m stuck


In my forehead


Is magenta colored walls.

I want to sit with you in the light of

The moon

Refracts the light I emanate.

And I’m a desperate


Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

I talk to the moon

There’s a full moon rising over Firenze

My rose quarts in the window reflects a tiny white light.

I like to think that the moon is reflecting back the shine of the rose quartz too.

A small pink glow to illuminate her third eye.

If I could sit down to tea with the moon;

I imagine we would talk about long distance relationships.

We’d complain about being on opposite sides of the world from our counterpart.

She’d remind me that even though they can not be in the same sky at the same time,

That her light would not shine the way it does with out the existence of the sun.

Shining- on his own- where ever he may be.

She would remind me that it’s natural to ebb and flow, to wax and wane (each of us fulfilling our personal duties)

She would say:

“But isn’t it beautiful how connected we are? One would not function right with out the other!”

We would talk about how we orbit one another.

The moon and I,

Our loves and us.

I would offer her some more tea

Looking into a cup of emptiness

And she would say:

“Tonight I am full,

no need for excess.”

Before she would make room in the sky for the sun to rise,

She would remind me to harvest all that has been cultivating within me.

She would tell me not to worry

for she will return the next night

to sit and talk to me

over some rose quarts

and a cup of tea.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The Link between Sex & Death

"True Sexuality demands the destruction of the ego.

The loss of oneself in the other."-Sabina Spielrein

After a particularly intense orgasm I was thinking about how at the peek of pleasure I had the thought that I just wanted to die. Now, obviously this wasn’t a morbid thought, no sort of suicidal this is so bad I just want it all to end type of thought. There was something in me that at that moment would have been utterly content in exploding, or spontaneously combusting, as I felt I might. It reminded me of an acid trip, how at the peek you are laughing so constantly and so hard that the experience just doesn’t seem like it will ever end. Maybe you will be on acid for the rest of your life and that idea sounds so awful but only because you feel so good. It’s the same thing. Its so good, that its too good and if it doesn’t end soon you are going to die, or for god sake you better.

Then I found out in many languages and cultures the word for orgasm actually means Little Death. Go figure, I thought this was an original idea.