THE SUNDAY POEM: Post-Op by Anthony Wilson

Anthony Wilson was born in 1964 and lives in Exeter. He currently works as a lecturer, poet in schools and a writing tutor for adults. He has undertaken writers' residencies for various organisations, including the Poetry Society and the Aldeburgh Poetry Trust. This poem is taken from his third collection, Nowhere Better Than This (Worple Press, pounds 9; p&p free to IoS readers from Worple Press, 12 Havelock Road, Tonbridge TN9 1JE; 01732 352 057; theworpleco@aol.com).

Happy because I am here, not there,

opposite Frank Tyson's namesake recounting

demob from the RAF, getting bowling hints

in a ward the former guest wing of a duke;

South African Ingrid who called me dear, darling,

brought me Marmite when I asked for honey

and touched my arm; Jane from `Nin-Zid',

Mr Wilson to her, sorry to always get to me last;

and Monica who said she'd look out for my book;

to have escaped smiling, woken up on morphine,

tried some passable pork casserole whose fault it wasn't

I vomited and more Radio 4, half asleep,

than I remember - though when you ask me news

out it all comes verbatim: a journalist shot dead

in Tyrone, the same, only captured without a passport

on the Afghan border, and more reaction to Berlusconi:

how the world outside goes on, like after birth,

without knowing how drole I was going under.

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