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Foreign. 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 aeternum 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 judgment, 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, Onius 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 Carinho 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 mantles and fester as if their legacy has meaning, as the living breathe on and 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 crime 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 and they too will dissolve under fingers dancing on a fretboard Strange choreography, branch hands turned starlings Fresh musk of dust My plain and special pain. So gather reinforcements I'll watch you pick splinters from palms soft and unused to battle their lines prophesying the End. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter. Find us on Instagram, LodownShow and Bluesky. Slowdownshow.org. Hi, it's Maggie. The Slowdown is the only poetry podcast in public media. That means your support is vital to keep us going. No matter how much you give, your contribution makes a real difference. Head to SlowdownShow.org donate today to Power More Poems into the Future.