TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

My knowledge of classical music is, to put it generously, limited. My knowledge of Catholicism is limited, too. So when I looked up the word requiem, I’m not sure what I expected, but I found an interesting rabbit hole to disappear into for a while. 

From what I learned, a requiem is a solemn musical setting for a Roman Catholic mass for the dead. The name comes from the first line, which — excuse my Latin — is “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.”

It means “Grant them eternal rest, O Lord.” Historically, because they’re part of a funeral service, and because they deal with themes of mortality and loss and even judgement, requiems are dramatic and emotional. They generally follow a specific structure, with multiple parts (or “movements,” as they say in the world of classical music). These parts can vary but typically include the Introit, or opening, a movement that  often features a solemn choir. Then the Dies Irae, or “Day of Wrath,” which is an intense movement describing judgment. Next is the Lacrimosa, an emotional movement often considered the climax of many requiems. And finally, Agnus Dei, a closing prayer for peace. Some notable examples include Mozart’s requiem (particularly the Lacrimosa movement), Verdi’s requiem (especially the Dies Irae movement), and Brahms’ German Requiem. 

Requiems have evolved over centuries and have meaning and application outside of religious contexts. It’s a powerful metaphor, actually. A final farewell could be framed as a kind of requiem. Or a profound loss, or the end of something important, or the death of a dream. There’s something analogous in poetry, too: the elegy. Though an elegy is a poem that mourns the dead, poets may frame elegies in ways that are broader, too. 

Today’s poem inspired me to learn more about requiems — what they are, how they’ve evolved, and how we might think of them more broadly and metaphorically. 

Reverse Requiem
by Ina Cariño

I used to sneer at zombies in the crowd—an apocalypse
               would do me good. now the last piano key whimpers, crumbles

into sable. I tell myself practiced hands make me special,
               that my sorrow is legible—or recitals gone wrong, little wounds,

render me tender, frayed. as the world ends, I’m only halfway sure
               I’d swing rusty hatchets at dawn barricades. I am still a child

singing hymns, voice adrift in fusty throngs: hail Mary, full
               of grace, the dead are with you.  gaunt faces smirking, wigs askew.

I think about these dead masters—how they lie limp in the muck,
               sit on mantels & fester, as if their legacy has meaning,

as the living breathe on & on. but I startle when the faucet drips,
               faint in the presence of wisteria. I am plain—plainer, perhaps,

than violins left for years untouched in their own grime:
               cracking wood, slow disassembling. scared, you call me, but

as the world reverses, I sing my name, my own arrival—stoop
               to pick up pieces of chipped afternoons—& they too will dissolve

under fingers dancing on a fret board: strange choreography.
               branch hands turned starlings, fresh musk of dust—my plain

& special pain. so gather reinforcements. I’ll watch you pick splinters
               from palms soft & unused to battle, their lines prophesying the end.

"Reverse Requiem" by Ina Cariño from REVERSE REQUIEM © 2026 Ina Cariño. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.