Rick Barot — The Singing

Summary

Poetry Unbound: Episode Summary – Rick Barot — The Singing

Release Date: February 3, 2025

---

Introduction

In this episode of Poetry Unbound, hosted by Pádraig Ó Tuama from On Being Studios, listeners are invited to delve deeply into Rick Barrett’s poignant poem, "The Singing," sourced from his fifth collection, Moving the Bones. Pádraig guides us through an immersive exploration of the poem, unraveling its layers of meaning, emotional depth, and intricate craftsmanship.

---

Overview of "The Singing"

Rick Barrett’s "The Singing" paints a vivid picture of tension and introspection within the confined space of a car dealership’s service department waiting room. The poem unfolds over the span of thirty minutes, capturing the silent, yet emotionally charged interactions among eight individuals present in the room.

Scene Setting:

• Location: Service department waiting room in a car dealership, reminiscent of a hotel lounge with tall plants and comfortable couches.
• Characters: Eight individuals, each engaged in mundane activities—reading newspapers, scrolling on phones, or watching muted television.
• Central Figure: A woman in the corner, quietly humming, whose soft tunes gradually evolve into an impassioned song in an unidentified African language.

Narrative Progression:

• The narrator, preoccupied with concerns about his car’s potential issues, becomes increasingly aware of the woman’s humming.
• As the humming transforms into a full-fledged song, it creates a ripple of discomfort and curiosity among the others in the room.
• The woman's persistent singing shifts from a subtle background melody to a demanding presence that unsettles the collective silence.
• The poem captures the internal struggle of the narrator as he oscillates between curiosity and a desire to control or halt the unexpected auditory intrusion.

---

Analysis and Discussion

Pádraig Ó Tuama delves into the multifaceted layers of "The Singing," highlighting Rick Barrett's mastery in portraying complex emotional landscapes through seemingly simple narratives.

Emotional Layers and Themes:

• Control vs. Acceptance: The poem juxtaposes the narrator’s desire to maintain control over his environment with the unpredictable intrusion of the woman's song.
• Internal Conflict: Barrett illustrates the narrator’s internal turmoil—his wrestling with shame, rage, and curiosity—as he contemplates responding to the woman’s persistent singing.
• Social Norms and Reactions: The poem subtly critiques societal expectations on how individuals should react to unexpected behaviors in public spaces.

Poetic Techniques:

• Narrative Tone: The poem adopts a conversational, almost prosaic tone, allowing readers to immerse themselves in the narrator’s unhurried observations and internal dialogues.
• Descriptive Imagery: Barrett employs rich, sensory descriptions to create a tangible sense of place and the underlying tensions within it.
• Repetition and Rhythm: The repetition of phrases like “she sings” emphasizes the relentless nature of the woman's song and its impact on the narrator’s psyche.

Rick Barrett’s Craftsmanship:

• Layered Storytelling: The poem operates on multiple levels, portraying not just the external events in the waiting room but also the intricate emotional responses elicited by them.
• Character Depth: Through succinct yet powerful descriptions, Barrett brings forth the complexities of human emotions—fear, shame, curiosity, and the desire for connection.
• Cultural Resonance: The unidentified African language of the woman’s song adds a layer of cultural mystique, prompting reflections on communication beyond words and the universality of music as an emotional outlet.

---

Themes and Insights

Pádraig emphasizes that "The Singing" extends beyond its immediate narrative to explore broader existential themes:

1. The Unpredictability of Human Interaction:

   • The unexpected presence of the woman’s song disrupts the otherwise mundane setting, highlighting how unforeseen events can challenge our sense of stability and control.

2. Inner Turmoil and Self-Reflection:

   • The narrator’s conflicting emotions serve as a mirror to our own internal struggles when faced with disruptions or discomforts in our lives.

3. Desire for Understanding vs. Fear of the Unknown:

   • The curiosity about the song juxtaposed with the fear of its implications underscores the universal human tension between seeking connection and safeguarding oneself from potential harm.

4. Social Conformity and Deviance:

   • The silent consensus among the other individuals to either ignore or potentially act against the woman’s singing reflects societal tendencies to conform and control deviations from the norm.

---

Notable Quotes

Throughout the episode, Pádraig highlights several poignant lines from the poem, attributing them with precise timestamps to underscore their significance:

• On Initial Interaction:

  “My name is Padre Gotouma, and my friends tell me that I'm the kind of person that they usually would not want to sit next to on a plane if they didn't know me, because my preference is to talk to whoever's next to me.” [00:02]

• Descriptive Imagery:

  “The humming woman is sitting near enough that I can hear her humming begin to take on words in a language I don't know. It sounds like an African language...” [00:02]

• Emotional Tension:

  “An equal disquiet seems to thicken the air of the room. Everyone is listening, no one is looking at her...” [00:02]

• Internal Conflict:

  “Someone, I think, will walk to her and tell her to stop. Someone, I think will tell someone in the car dealership to make her stop.” [00:02]

• Unresolved Moment:

  “There is no resolving the moment until it ends. Whether the woman is aware of the rest of us, she does not give any indication.” [00:02]

• Final Reflection:

  “She sings, she sings, she sings, she sings.” [00:02]

Note: The timestamps reflect the position within the provided transcript and may not correspond to the actual podcast timeline.

---

Conclusion

Rick Barrett’s "The Singing" serves as a profound exploration of human psychology and social dynamics within confined spaces. Through meticulous narration and evocative imagery, Barrett invites readers to reflect on their responses to unexpected disruptions and the underlying emotions that surface in such moments. Pádraig Ó Tuama adeptly unpacks these layers, offering listeners a comprehensive understanding of the poem's intricate dance between control, vulnerability, and the yearning for connection. This episode of Poetry Unbound not only celebrates Barrett’s literary prowess but also encourages a deeper contemplation of our own interactions and internal landscapes.

---

Further Exploration: For those intrigued by this episode, Rick Barrett’s Moving the Bones offers a collection of poems that continue to explore similar themes of existence, emotion, and the human condition. Engage with the vibrant discussions on the Poetry Unbound Substack Newsletter and participate in upcoming gatherings to immerse yourself further in the world of poetry.

Transcript

[Padre Gotouma]

My name is Padre Gotouma, and my friends tell me that I'm the kind of person that they usually would not want to sit next to on a plane if they didn't know me, because my preference is to talk to whoever's next to me. On a flight recently, somebody leaned over and tapped me on the shoulder and said, where did you get your slippers? And I was delighted to talk to them. Another time somebody tapped me on the shoulder and said, are you writing a poem? And I was. She was an English teacher and then she came along to the poetry reading I was giving the next night. This, to my mind, just indicates how interesting the world is and probably indicates the kind of poems that I gravitate to sometimes in Poetry Unbound. I love poems that describe when somebody in the room does something that was unexpected, that causes a ripple amongst the other people there. They're not sure what to do and they'll have a story to tell, but also it'll reveal something about them. The Singing by Rick Barrett There are eight of us in the waiting room of the service department in the car dealership. Some are reading newspapers or scrolling on their phones or watching the TV with the news on the sound off. There's a woman sitting in the corner looking down at her phone. She is humming very softly. The room is more like a lounge, just off the lobby of a nice hotel with tall plants and couches. I am reading paperwork for my job, one part of my mind thinking about that, another part thinking about the things the mechanic might find wrong with my car, acting like it has a bad cough. The humming woman is sitting near enough that I can hear her humming begin to take on words in a language I don't know. It sounds like an African language, its soft registers making me think the woman is singing a lullaby or a nostalgic about a landscape, though for all I know she might be singing about a war or the clanging streets of a city. In the half hour all of us are there together, no one entering the room, no one called away. The woman's humming begins to turn insistently into singing as her voice gets louder and lifts into what must be the song's sad ecstasy. An equal disquiet seems to thicken the air of the room. Everyone is listening, no one is looking at her, but everyone is now aware that she is there, brought into this consensus. At first the singing is a novel kind of delight. The unabashed woman is a story we will get to tell about later, but as it goes on, demanding our attention, it becomes another thing. In one part of the room is a coffee station. In another part is a popcorn machine where you can help yourself to little bags of popcorn. On the tv, the face of the man speaking looks like a square of ham. The woman is looking down at her phone and singing. It is the same song, looping the same eerie rise and fall. Someone, I think, will walk to her and tell her to stop. Someone, I think, will tell someone in the car dealership to make her stop. Someone will call the police or think of doing so, as one part of my mind is doing now, crouched in a declivity of shame. With kind curiosity, I also want to go to the woman and ask her what the song is about. One span of the song sounds like a scorched house, while another quavers upward, as when the plane sharply banks, filling the window with the sky. No one in the room has moved for a long time. There is no resolving the moment until it ends. Whether the woman is aware of the rest of us, she does not give any indication. By lowering her voice, she sings, she sings, she sings, she sings. I love this poem by Rick Barrett. The tone of it is almost like narration. It reads like prose. But one of the things that occurs a level deeper than the simple narration is a particular awareness of place and experience. So he. He does very interesting, emotional, with how he modifies describing the room where they are and then describing what's happening in the room. And he allows a certain panic to build up in you, or you feel his own panic. And so therefore it's an experience of time that's really being narrated. That's the particular poetic artistry, I think, that's present in the unfolding way that's described. It's unhurried, you know, the scene is set, there's eight people in the waiting room, and some are on their phones and some are reading newspapers. And the room is described with generosity, like a lounge just off the lobby of a nice hotel, with tall plants and couches. And he's reading the paperwork for his job. But actually he's got a small worry, a quiet dread in him, too, about that cough that's been coming from his car. And maybe underneath that. Then there's the worry about how much is this going to cost. Back to the woman who's sitting near him. She's sitting near enough that I can hear her humming, begin to take on words in a language I don't know. His speculation about what is the language. He wonders if it's an African language, but he doesn't know. And what's she singing? What we're hearing here is his interest in describing what's on the surface and then what's under the surface and then the feelings about the things you don't know. I don't know how much the car is going to cost. I don't know how long I'm going to be here. I don't know if this person's going to continue singing. I don't know how to respond to that. I don't know what she's singing about. This poem is 3, 4, 5 layers deep and looks at what happens in a waiting room. It's almost like a waiting room for life. You can't control other people. And this is an experiment, really, of opening up with, I think, great courage, the various things that go through your mind when something unexpected happens. I've been reading Rick Barrett's work for a number of years. I think this book from which this comes. It's called Moving the Bones. I think it's his fifth book. He was born in the Philippines and then moved to the States. And there's something about the simplicity of this poem as well as the absolute exposure of the rage and projection and shame that happens inside yourself when you find yourself thinking things that you don't want to think, crouched in a declivity of shame. You know, this is a man of color in a situation where he's fantasizing about someone calling the cops on somebody who's just singing. That, to my mind, is part of the way within which rage is occurring in him. I think what he's doing is exposing the inner mechanics of his mind to go, oh, my God, what was I thinking? And then to go, no, let me practice something better. Kind curiosity. There's something about all of that that really demonstrates to me skill as a poet. He's not hiding behind technique. He is exposing layers upon layers. In many ways, this is a poem less about what's occurring in the room and more about control. We are always going to find ourselves in situations where something untroubling is happening that is nonetheless troubling us because it brings to the surface our desire for social norms or conventions or what's the role or who should be in charge here, or, I don't understand what's going on. He allows all kinds of hostilities to come across in himself. Even right at the beginning when he's talking about what's going on in the song. Initially he says, maybe it's a lullaby or a nostalgic song about a landscape. And then even There he goes, though for all I know, she might be singing about a war or the clanging streets of a city. The language begins to rise and fall in its projection and its concern. He begins to fantasize about who it is and how it is that this could cease, this could stop. And then he begins to push that away. He's worried. One span of the song sounds like a scorched house while another quavers upward. What do we do with these parts inside of ourselves that we face? The part that's open to the surprise as well as the part that wants to control it and stop it? I find that one of the powerful images in this poem is of the television that's on with the news on, but the sound is turned off, that there's something being said that's not being heard. And it feels like the woman who's singing is listening to herself. But the speaker of the poem is trying to tune in to everything in him that has the sound turned down because he's censoring himself for good reason. I'm glad he did. But he's then talking to us about the experience of silencing himself, of silencing the desire. And this follows along the whole way throughout the poem in ways within which the language rises in repetition. Like that one that was mentioned earlier on about Stop. Someone, I think, will walk to her and tell her to stop. Someone, I think will tell someone in the car dealership to make her stop. These short syllable words have the impression of a certain kind of precaution, of a certain kind of decisiveness, of certain kind of music and an int. It keeps on then returning back to the sound of this song that he can't control, that he can't interpret, that is doing something in him that he is made uncomfortable with because it's evoking multiple things in him. The poem ends then, brilliantly, not with all that anxiety that's in him. He tells us that there's no resolving the moment until it ends, and that he is unsure whether the woman is aware of the rest of them or not. Presumably she is. She's in a waiting room like the rest of them, but she doesn't know her. Her voice. And then the final line. She sings, she sings, she sings, she sings. She's possibly still singing in his mind, which is why it is that he needed to write the poem. I. I love it. We're just brought into this moment of absolute lack of resolve. Presumably he continued to think about it and was troubled in a continued way, because this brilliant Poem of tension and music arose from the the Singing by Rick Barrett There are eight of us in the waiting room of the service department in the car dealership. Some are reading newspapers or scrolling on their phones or watching the TV with the news on, the sound off. There's a woman sitting in the corner, looking down at her phone. She is humming very softly. The room is more like a lounge, just off the lobby of a nice hotel with tall plants and couches. I am reading paperwork for my job, one part of my mind thinking about that, another part thinking about the things the mechanic might find wrong with my car acting like it has a bad cough. The humming woman is sitting near enough that I can hear her humming begin to take on words in a language I don't know. It sounds like an African language, its soft registers making me think the woman is singing a lullaby or a nostalgic song about a landscape, though for all I know she might be singing about a war or the clanging streets of a city. In the half hour all of us are there together, no one entering the room, no one called away. The woman's humming begins to turn insistently into singing as her voice gets louder and lifts into what must be the song's sad ecstasy. An equal disquiet seems to thicken the air of the room. Everyone is listening. No one is looking at her, but everyone is now aware that she is there, brought into this consensus. At first the singing is a novel kind of delight. The unabashed woman is a story we will get to tell about later. But as it goes on, demanding our attention, it becomes another thing. In one part of the room is a coffee station. In another part is a popcorn machine where you can help yourself to little bags of popcorn. On the tv, the face of the man speaking looks like a square of ham. The woman is looking down at her phone and singing. It is the same song, looping, the same eerie rise and fall. Someone, I think, will walk to her and tell her to stop. Someone, I think, will tell someone in the car dealership to make her stop. Someone will call the police or think of doing so, as one part of my mind is doing now, crouched in a declivity of shame. With kind curiosity, I also want to go to the woman and ask her what the song is about. One span of the song sounds like a scorched house, while another quivers upward, as when the plane sharply banks, filling the window with the sky. No one in the room has moved for a long time. There is no resolving the moment until it ends, whether the woman is aware of the rest of us. She does not give any indication. By lowering her voice, she sings, she sings, she sings, she sings.

[Chris Heagle]

The singing comes from Rick Barrett's book Moving the Bounds. Thank you to Milkweed Editions, who gave us permission to use Rick's poem. Read it on our [e-mail] Poetry Unbound.

[Padre Gotouma]

Is Gautam Srikishan, Eddie Gonzalez, Lucas Johnson.

[Chris Heagle]

Kayla Edwards, Tiffany Champion, Cameron Moussar, and me, Chris Heagle. Our music is composed and provided by Gautham Srikishan and Blue Dot Sessions. This podcast is produced by On Being Studios, which is located on Dakota Land. Open your world to poetry with us by subscribing to our substack newsletter. For links and to find out more, visit poetryunbound.org.

[Padre Gotouma]

This podcast is produced by Unbeing Studios in Minneapolis, Minnesota.