"My world view is universalism. My sense of morality is based on fairness. I feel free of prejudice."



Ana Ingham


A gentle legend

David Bowie,

now his memory lay

in Hollywood Boulevard.

A frail ginger girl,

head bowed, lips trembling,

in the midst of red roses and little candles,

staring lovingly at his photograph,

dreaming she, too, would belong to the world

of the unforgettable, one day.

Bowie became an inspiration

for those who come a long way,

believing there is nothing to lose

other than their dreams.

Bowie came from the North Country.

A little boy during the years of blackouts,

the years of porridge and potato mash.

Perhaps a little evacuee,

looking out of a sash window

at the iron cast bridge, factory chimneys

and red brick walls, the light laden with rain,

undulating hills submerged in mist.

stone walls running along the fields.

The bleakly beautiful view

must have inspired the frail little boy

to fight for his dreams.

Bowie made it.

Now the mourners in Hollywood Boulevard

stare at his photograph surrounded

by red roses and little candles,

and think about the meaning of life,

the meaning of fame,

the meaning of death.


Copyright © 2016.  Ana Ingham. All rights reserved. This work is registered with Copyright House.



By Ana Ingham


In old films

there was more tears, more smiles.

In old films

there was more fog, more sunshine.

In old films people waited for a long time. But they rushed to gold.

They rushed to love.

There was more admiration for beauty.

They whispered passionately.

Sure, there was villains and lies,

but there was also more regret.

more sense.

Today when I see movies

with cold voices, cold eyes, cold sex,

and guns guns guns

I turn my face away. 


Copyright © 2015, Ana Ingham. All rights reserved. This work is registered with Copyright House.

Ana Ingham


When I was a little girl wearing clothes in floral patterns 
sewn by my mom, a self-taught nurse on the mountain
Hollywood was the magic
and love was something between super men, 
and super women 
Robert Taylor, James Dean 
Ava Gardner, Audrey Hepburn, Sophia Loren. 
When their lips came closer and closer on the huge screen 
in the open air cinema near the cemetery, 
I looked down, 
afraid that my little heart might burst 
from so much emotion and so much love.
I had long auburn hair then and no bosom at all. 
I was eight years old and was in love 
with James Dean and Robert Taylor at the same time. 
For us, the poor folks on the mountain,
those movies were more exciting than our lives. 
Those movies showed us how to say: “ I love you,’
How to kiss, how to whisper, how to dress,
how to move our hips sexily. 
How to look into the eyes of a lover,
How to dust the jacket of a husband, 
how to send him to work
after a quick kiss. 
And one day give him the big news: ‘I’m pregnant’ 
Those movie taught us how to click glasses,
how to drink champaign, how to moan with delight. 
Those movies taught us how to accuse an unfaithful husband, 
how to cry, how to have nervous breakdown.
Those movies taught us to devote ourselves
to our loved ones and feel terribly guilty if we
go away. 
Hollywood set moral codes and coloured dreams for many.
And now, walking up and down the Hollywood Boulevard,
weary of blinking lights of publicity, 
weary of the crowds taking pictures with Iphones,
weary of gun shots and bleeding necks 
on huge screens
I miss James Dean 
and the dreamy little girl in floral cotton dress.


Copyright © 2015, Ana Ingham. All rights reserved. This work is registered with Copyright House.

Ana Ingham

Ana Ingham


Resting under a pine tree,

listening to the gentle ripples of the sea, 

breathing the scent of orange trees. 

A distant piano caressing your memories.

You ask: why the wars?

In your room in London, 

You listen to Bach,

You watch a painting by Braque

And you ask: Why the wars?

You look into each other’s eyes after making love. 

You smile at a bird perched outside.

And you ask: Why the wars?

‘Friends of Poetry’ meet 

by the wood burning fire

every Saturday.  

And you ask: Why the wars?

The sky is shattered. 

the ocean turn red.

The trees wither.

And you ask: 

What will remain from us?

arts, love, science

Or burning ruins, scattered limbs? 

No religion, no rhetoric

can justify this.


Copyright © 2015, Ana Ingham. All rights reserved. This work is registered with Copyright House.

© 2016 by Ana Ingham