Three Strikes in London

Three Strikes in London
Unlike other living poets, whose work we promote on our website, she doesn’t use social media to share her work. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s her own decision. We get the chance to promote some of her wonderful work. This is the poem "Three Strikes in London. "

Unlike other living poets, whose work we promote on our website, she doesn’t use social media to share her work. This isn’t a bad thing. It’s her own decision. We get the chance to promote some of her wonderful work. This is the poem Three Strikes in London.

Megan Denese Mealor
Megan Denese Mealor

Source: own photo

About Megan

Megan lives in Jacksonville (Florida, US), together with her partner, son and two cats.

The fact that she doesn’t use social media, didn’t stop her from getting her work published. Her work was published in various literary journals. She was also nominated twice for The Pushcart Prize. But that’s not all!

In October 2018 she is publishing her first poetry collection, entitled Bipolar Lexicon. Her debut will be published by Unsolicited Press.

The title of her first book refers to her personal life. She was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when she was a teenager. Because there is a lot to be said and many have a wrong impression about how or what it’s really like, she made it her mission to tell her story. She does this using the power of poetry. For her, it’s important that the stigmatization stops.


She didn’t use a lot of words to describe this poem. All she told us that it represents that moment when she discovered her own heartbeat and unfound his.

Obviously, this revelation came to her when visiting London. This majestic city with all of its tourist hotspots can leave quite an impression on someone. In her poem, she describes a lot of these hotspots and the importance of these places. It is as if you can feel this poetess, who is absorbing every part of this city. Eventually, it becomes her tint… her hue.

If you read closely – please do so – then you will notice that there is something else that needs to be addressed. This is like the dark alleys where she walks. One cannot help thinking that this might be that what we know as soul or mind. A mind that is uplifted by the creativity, but is also impressed by it. Even when they ‘re ‘just’ bookshops that are housed in basements.

It’s those three strikes – included in the title – that are important enough to not just assume they are part of the title of this beautiful poem. No, this is the bell of the church striking. It’s a new time, perhaps a new beginning. Or is it? Is it what we know in sports as these three failed attempts? Three failed tries and you are supposed to leave. To where? And when? Whatever or whenever… it matters, but is this the thumbprint that is burning from an impassive palm? Impassive isn’t just about pain. No, there is more: it’s about emotion and feelings. That what we consider as insensible or expressionless.

At times like this, when we have the opportunity to share poetry such as this, we can do nothing more than be more than proud to provide a platform for this type of poetry: it’s majestic, it’s wonderful, it’s beautiful. We could go on with a list of what this poem is, what it ‘does.’ Maybe it’s a better idea if you start reading this poem written by Megan.

Three Strikes in London

Three Strikes in London

We spent our thunder in East End stagger,
imbibing jellied eels sharked from shadows
underlying Tower Bridge stained Silver Jubilee.
Irish weavers once spilled their angels on those docks;
Leather Apron boiled fetid fog, tempested theists.
You induced me along gashes of geodesic graffiti
enlivening crooked curry houses, inner city chattel,
fidgety railway bridge partitions retailing
kitschy orchards, botanic rainboots
in the shambolic underpass.
In a charismatic kilt and Victorian tourmaline,
I descended brick basement bookshops,
jubilating in the heirloom halo,
thumbprint burning your impassive palm.
Cancan robots, unbaptized bohemian Bentleys
depicted the dilettantish din
borderless throughout enameled back alleys.
Electrified with Rhubarb Sours and feeling alien,
I disoriented your voltage in a biting brasserie
swirling with coriander, chilies, cardamom.
The last time you lost me in Shoreditch,
I was procuring bouquets of Harper’s Bazaar,
pocketing hints of old-world Chanel,
lacing Queensbridge Road into my hue.

— Megan Denese Mealor

Three Strikes in London
Article Name
Three Strikes in London
She found her own heartbeat, but lost his.
Publisher Name
The Ministry of Poetic Affairs

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