Saying More with Less: Natalie Bell and Glenn North
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Hey there. We here at The Moth have an exciting opportunity for high school sophomores, juniors, and seniors who love to tell stories. Join The Moth Story Lab this fall. Whether for an aspiring writer, a budding filmmaker, or simply someone who loves to spin a good yarn, this workshop is a chance to refine the craft of storytelling. From brainstorming to that final mic drop moment, we've got students covered.

Plus, they'll make new friends, build skills that shine in school and beyond, and have a blast along the way. These workshops are free and held in person in New York City or virtually anywhere in the U.S. Space is limited. Apply now through September 22nd at themoth.org slash students. That's themoth.org slash students. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Kaylee Barron, the Manager of People and Culture at The Moth, and your host for this episode.

At The Moth, we're all about true stories told live. Stanzas, rhymes, ravens gently rapping on chamber doors. Get those out of here. You won't find free verse at a moth show.

But even though our hearts are with storytelling, we'll admit that there's something special about poetry. Lots of Moth hosts and storytellers are poets as well. And even certain members of the Moth staff have been known to dabble in poetic arts. And I am no exception. When I think about my relationship to poetry, it used to be the obvious.

Bad poems like really bad poems, written at 17, generously forgiven by my English teacher, Mrs. Diba. The journal and magazine rejection letters that piled up through college, and then the eventual recognition and applause. What I think about now though, more than anything, is that sometimes when we talk about poetry, we end up talking about the way poetry brings us together even more than the lines and form itself. So to celebrate National Poetry Month, we'll be sharing two Moth stories that touch on the power of poetry.

First up is Natalie Bell, who told this at a Pittsburgh Story Slam in 2013, where the theme of the night was Love Hurts. Here's Natalie, live at the mall. I was in ninth grade, and this was about four years into a seven-year stint in orthodontia. And at the time, I had a huge crush on this guy in my English class, Brian, who was just using me to pass English. So we would spend study halls together...

studying word within the word, and I got him through ninth grade AP English. And we were coming to the end of the year, and the poetry fest was coming up, and everyone had to read a poem. And confidence told me that this was the point in time at which I was going to impress Brian.

So I picked out not a silly poem I had written or something that was really normal. I picked out this super melodramatic poem about someone watching their lover drown, which is the kind of thing you write at 14. And so, but the day beforehand, I didn't plan this out particularly well. And the day beforehand, I went to my orthodontist and they put in an upper jaw expander. And

And I'd like to take a moment out of this story to tell you that at the time, I'm going to admit that this was before I'd had an adenoidectomy. So my nose was like completely blocked off. So in addition to having an upper jock spander, I was also kind of a mouth breather. And so I like, with this upper jock spander, I was a little nasal and also kind of talking like this. And...

I went home and I IM'd Brian. This was in the days of AIM. And I'm pretty sure his screen name was something like H2O Polo Player. And I was like, okay, look, I got this upper jaw expander and I'm kind of talking funny, so just don't make fun of me, okay? Okay.

And Bryden was like, "Yeah, no, I'd never do that." So I spent that night looking in front of the mirror and practicing this poem over and over and over again until I was deaf to my own impediment. And I went into school the next day and I was like, "I've got this. I'm ready. I can do this."

I go into the library, and the Night Grid Poetry Fest is a pretty big deal. They deck out the library. The lights are off. They have little Christmas lights everywhere. People's parents show up. They have a stage with oriental rugs and unsatisfyingly small cups of punch. And so it was my turn to read, and I was like, you know, this is it. I'm going to read this poem, and he's going to realize that I'm like a 14-year-old poetic genius.

and he's gonna be in love with me. And I stand up and I take a deep breath and I go, "The rescue." Oh no. And I remember staring out at the exit sign and thinking that like maybe I could just leave. But I'm being graded on this and then I think like maybe I could just pretend I'm dying but that seemed really melodramatic.

So I read through the poem, which was just like all S's. And it was like, I tried to save you. Like, it was awful. And I finished this poem, and I looked out into the audience, and it was dead silent. And I just remember, I looked at my friend's mom, and she wouldn't make eye contact with me. And I saw her mouth. Wow.

And it was like everybody remembered to clap immediately after that. And it was really mortifying. And I went and sat down. And a little while after that, the bell rang. And I walked out into the blinding, damning lights of the hallway. And I already knew things had gone really bad. And Brian walked up to me after class and looked me in the eye and went, the rescue. And walked away. Thank you. Thank you.

That was Natalie Bell. Natalie is a writer and registered nurse living with her poetry-loving husband, who met her after the orthodontia, but has heard the stories, in West Redding, Pennsylvania. She believes in the restorative power of storytelling, the scientific method, and the Oxford comma. Up next is a story from Glenn North. He told us at a Lawrence, Kansas main stage in 2022. Here's Glenn, live at the mall. When I was a kid, my grandmother loved to spoil me.

Birthdays were really special because she would always give me whatever the hot toy was at the time. So I'm talking Hot Wheels race car tracks, Slinky, Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, you name it. When I was about to turn eight, all I wanted was a G.I. Joe with the Kung Fu Grip. So my eighth birthday rolls around with my grandmother and she hands me a copy of the poem "If" by Rudyard Kipling.

And I look around the room because I figure there has to be some mistake. Maybe the toys are stashed somewhere. Maybe G.I. Joe is lurking behind the couch. But the poem was all there was. And grandmother said, "Glenn, I want you to memorize this poem because it will help you understand what it means to be a man." I'm thinking, "I already understand what it means to be a man. It doesn't get any manlier than a G.I. Joe with a kung fu grip." I didn't say that out loud though. I love my grandmother.

I wanted to please her. It took me a couple of days, but I finally got the poem memorized and I'll never forget the smile on her face when I recited the last stanza. "If you can feel the unforgiving minute with 60 seconds worth of distance run, then yours is the earth and everything that's in it. And which is more, you'll be a man, my son." It made me happy to see my grandmother so happy.

And although I didn't fully understand the poem at the time, I loved the way it rhymed. I loved the rhythm of the poem. And not long after that, I was writing my own poetry and I've been writing ever since. Poetry was an outlet for me. I didn't really share it with a lot of people. Every now and again, I might show an English teacher or write a poem for a girl I had a crush on. My English teachers really dug it. The girls, not so much. So I just kept it to myself.

Growing up in Kansas City in the 1980s, there wasn't a creative community that I felt connected to. I felt like I was living in this cow town in a flyover state and that my creativity would never be fully embraced. My father even told me one night, "Ain't nobody ever gonna pay you to write no poems. When you grow up, you need to think about selling insurance." But cut to the summer of 1993.

A rich friend of mine, a guy named Donnie, was moving to DC and he knew that I wasn't happy living in Kansas City and he invited me to move there with him. He'd already rented an apartment and had an extra bedroom. I was like, "Hell yeah, get me out of here." So I left a few days later, headed for the East Coast with all my worldly possessions: a trash bag full of clothes and a dime bag full of weed. So we get to DC and we start to make friends.

One of the guys we met found out that I enjoyed writing poetry and he invited me to an open mic. The night that I went, I shared a poem about black love and I got this rousing standing ovation and I was immediately hooked. I started performing in venues all over DC and after about three years, I was really starting to develop a name for myself. When I got a call from home, my mom said that my dad had just had a heart attack

And I figured that I needed to leave D.C. and come back home to help take care of him. That was a real depressing time for me. There wasn't any poetry scenes in Kansas City at the time. And I was talking to a friend of mine, Jay, and I said, you know, Kansas City is so whack. This is not at all like D.C. I mean, every night there was a different venue I could go to and I was going on and on. And Jay said, why don't you just start a poetry reading here? And it's like in that moment, the whole world changed.

I figured instead of complaining about what my city lacked, I could do something about it. So Jay, another friend of ours named Marcus and I got together and we came up with the idea for a monthly open mic poetry reading called "Verbal Attack" that would center around black consciousness and social justice. And so we started looking for a venue

I ended up falling in love with this place called the Club Mardi Gras, which was located in the 18th and Vine historic jazz district of Kansas City. And that's a historic district because during the era of segregation, the black population lived in that part of town and they were thriving. The Club Mardi Gras has this incredible history. All the greats performed there, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington.

The problem was, the Mardi Gras was owned by this iconic businessman in Kansas City, a guy named Alex Thomas, and he was known for being really shrewd. And so, when I met him and I told him about my idea of hosting a poetry reading there, what I found out really quickly is that unlike me, Alex didn't give two shits about poetry. In fact, he thought that a poetry reading might disturb his regular clientele, that they might find it irritating.

But I had my heart set on the Mardi Gras, so I just started hanging out there. I would go there two or three times a week. I'd sit at the bar. I'd chat Alex up, telling him about how great the scene in D.C. was and how Kansas City was really hungry for an event like that. And finally, he agreed. We had a simple arrangement. I would charge $5 at the door for folks who wanted to come to the portrait reading, and I guaranteed him that his liquor sales would increase exponentially.

So I get back with J.M. Marcus, and we start mapping everything out. We're thinking about what kind of music do we want to play? What poets are we going to invite? What is the format going to be? I remember one night we got into this big debate about whether or not we'd serve chicken wings. Anyway, we got things figured out. We had the opening date set up. And out of nowhere, we find out that another organization, the Black Renaissance Outreach, also known as BRO, had hosted a poetry reading.

And it felt like the whole city had gone. Everybody was talking about it. Everybody was excited, except for me, Jay, and Marcus, because our event was still two months out, and we knew that by then people would think that we had been copycats and we were biting somebody else's style.

So, I decided to eat some humble pie. I reached out to the guys at Black Renaissance Outreach. I told them that I was coming to their next event. I just wanted to have a word with them. And my plan was to let them know that we'd been planning a similar event and that we could cross-promote. We could help each other market our events. We could collaborate and help to create a scene like was so popular in DC.

So the night that I go, I pull up to this place, the Liquid Lounge. It's this beautiful venue. I'd never been there before. I mean, beautiful people, beautiful music. It was a beautiful vibe. It was like back in the 90s, one of those Puff Daddy videos that Hype Williams directed. Everything was all slick and shiny. I made my way through the crowd. I went to the table where the guys from the Black Renaissance Outreach were sitting.

And I was getting ready to go into my spiel, and it just went from bad to worse really quickly. One of the guys said, it's a good thing you guys aren't going to do your event now because as you can see, you wouldn't be able to compete with us. I swallowed my pride. I stayed humble. But in my mind, the fight was on.

I figured the best revenge was success. And this wasn't a game to me. This was an opportunity for me to reestablish my identity as a poet. It was a chance for me to give something significant to my city, a venue where poets and artists and musicians could come together and pursue social justice. So it became really important to me to make verbal attack a reality.

Now this was before social media, this was before MySpace. So I spent a small fortune making copies and I went to every club, every party, every concert, PTA meetings, anywhere I thought I could find folks who were interested in poetry. Now it's June 25th, 1997. It's opening night.

Mardi Gras is buzzing with electricity. Marcus is hauling stuff in and out, rearranging stuff. He's making me do like a thousand sound checks to make sure the mic is right. Jay's got all the poets huddled up in the corner and he's giving them this pep talk like they're boxers about to get in the ring. And I'm sweating bullets because Alex is looking at me like he might kill me if this thing doesn't work. And so I'm really feeling like there's so much riding on this. It's seven o'clock.

Time to open the door. It's the moment of truth. When I do open the door, I look down the block and there's a line of people stretching around the corner. Cars are pulling up, music is bumping, people are coming in, three or four folks at a time. Everybody's laughing, folks are talking loud, the drinks are being poured, Alex is smiling. It's a wonderful thing.

So the room is really loud and I know that I get everybody, I need to get everyone's attention to start the show. And I've got this poem prepared and it went like: "Verbal attack is spectacular, bound to change the vernacular, here to round up all verbal visionaries, arm them for Armageddon, bet you didn't bet on us to kick up a fuss phoenix from the dust to corral all Asiatic alphabetic architects." By the time I finished the poem, the room was quiet.

everybody's ready to hear some good poetry. It was a wonderful night. About three months later, the guys from Black Renaissance Outreach weren't hosting their event anymore. They were coming to Verbal Attack on a regular basis. Alex was happy. His liquor sales were shooting through the roof. And my father was surprised to find out that I was actually getting paid to write poems.

Looking back, I would like to think the verbal attack was a part of a cultural renaissance that began in Kansas City in the late 90s and continues to flourish to this day. And when I think back to my eighth birthday, although the only thing my grandmother gave me was the poem "If" by Rudyard Kipling, I have to admit it was a much better gift than a G.I. Joe, even one with a kung fu grip. Thank you.

That was Glenn North. Glenn is a community-based poet, the director of inclusive learning and creative impact at the Kansas City Museum, an adjunct professor at Rockhurst University, co-founder of the African American Artists Collective, and a Cave Canem poetry fellow. Hashtag poetry everywhere is his mantra. And if you'd like to see some photos of Glenn and the other Verbal Attack founders, visit our website, themoth.org slash extras.

Poetry absolutely is everywhere, Glenn. As we ascend into April in the spring season, I'll leave you with a few lines from T.S. Eliot. April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Those are the opening lines from The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot, who's my second favorite Missouri poet, with Glenn now being my first. That's all for this episode. From all of us here at The Moth, we hope you have a poetic, story-filled week.

Kaylee Barron is the manager of people and culture at The Moth. She has been a writer, performer, and staff member with the Poetry Society of New York since 2018, and each summer helps produce the New York City Poetry Festival on Governor's Island.

This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Catherine Burns, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Jennifer Birmingham, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Caza. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and more information

and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PeerX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at peerx.org.