Requiem

Instead of a Preface/Dedication

Akhmatova opens with a statement under the title, “Instead of a Preface.” She explains the circumstances in which the cycle was born—“the frightening years of the Yezhov terror” (Line 1), when Stalin and his then-head of the secret police, Nikolai Yezhov, embarked on their execution campaign throughout Soviet Russia. Akhmatova’s son, Lev, was arrested and sent to prison on trumped-up charges. Akhmatova references this experience: “I spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in / Leningrad” (Lines 2-3), Leningrad being the Soviet name for the city of St. Petersburg.

While waiting in the long line outside the prison, Akhmatova recalls being addressed by another woman, “her lips blue with cold” (Line 5), who does not recognize Akhmatova as a famous poet. The woman momentarily transcends the “torpor” (Line 6) that defines the scene and asks Akhmatova, perhaps rhetorically, if it is possible to describe what is happening. Akhmatova immediately replies, “‘I can’” (Line 9), prompting a smile from the woman.

“Instead of a Preface” embodies, in these few lines, the key themes that will dominate the cycle. The line outside the prison is a snapshot of the autobiographical and historical reality of the time. The prison is a symbol that will reoccur, and is emblematic of a country imprisoned by dictatorial tyranny. In noting the “torpor / characteristic of all of us” (Lines 6-7), Akhmatova alludes to the transformative—and frequently communal—experience of suffering that defines the years of Terror on both an individual and societal level. Akhmatova ends on a note of defiance and hope. She asserts that she can put into words what is taking place. The resulting cycle, Requiem, is her testament, her act of bearing witness on behalf of all those who suffered in her country.

In the “Dedication” poem that follows “Instead of a Preface,” Akhmatova describes the personal and national crisis that impacted both her and Russia during the Terror. She opens the “Dedication” by describing the Terror as something so terrible and powerful it has turned the natural order upside down: “Mountains fall before this grief / A mighty river stops its flow” (Lines 1-2). She explores how the prison represents what has gone wrong with Russia, alluding to the thousands swept up in arrests and persecution: “[P]rison doors stay firmly bolted / Shutting off the convict burrows” (Lines 3-4).

Indiscriminate persecution has turned the population into a dehumanized mass united by common suffering: “We are everywhere the same, listening / To the scrape and turn of hateful keys” (Lines 8-9). The Russians are enduring a surreal and hellish experience—“Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed” (Line 12)—while still clinging desperately to “hope” (Line 15). Akhmatova describes how a person ends up crushed when a loved one is imprisoned, leaving them facing “total isolation” (Line 17) and emotional anguish.

Akhmatova addresses her fellow victims directly, asking, “Where are you, my unwilling friends / Captives of my two satanic years?” (Lines 21-22). She ends by dedicating the cycle to them: “I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell” (Line 25). Requiem is dedicated to all the victims of the Terror—Akhmatova’s “unwilling friends” united through suffering—and stands as a literary monument to memory and solidarity.

Introduction/Poems I-VI

In the “Introduction,” Akhmatova describes how life under Stalin has become a living nightmare for the Russians: “only the dead / Were smiling, glad of their release” (Line 1-2). The city of Leningrad is now defined only by its prisons, as if the prisons control the city instead of the other way around: “Leningrad hung around its prisons / Like a worthless emblem” (Lines 3-4). The victims of the Terror appear numberless as they are marched off to prison and forced labor camps, “demented by suffering” (Line 7). Akhmatova describes the country as living under “Stars of death” (Line 9)—an allusion to Stalin’s apparently omnipresent power. She laments how Russia “squirmed / Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres / Of the black marias” (Lines 10-12), “black marias” referring to the infamous black cars driven by secret police. As this “Introduction” makes clear, this is a city and an country in the throes of a deep and terrifying crisis.

In “Poem I,” Akhmatova turns from an overview of the national situation to her own personal tragedy: The arrest of her son, Lev. She opens by recalling how, “You [Lev] were taken away at dawn. I followed you / As one does when a corpse is being removed” (Lines 1-2). In describing Lev’s arrest as though it were a sort of death, Akhmatova alludes to the blurring between life and death induced by the Terror, as well as the often lethal consequences of getting arrested by the Soviet secret police. Akhmatova uses religious imagery—something that will be important symbolically throughout the cycle—to describe her son’s fear: “The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold / sweat / On your brow” (Lines 5-7).

Akhmatova concludes the poem by invoking a failed 18th century rebellion against Tsar Peter the Great, linking her suffering in Stalin’s Russia to that endured by Russians in former times: “I will gather / To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy [the rebels] / Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers” (Lines 7-9). “Kremlin towers” alludes to the seat of government power in Moscow, from which Stalin and his henchmen now wage war against their own people.

In “Poem II,” Akhmatova describes a scene of ominous stillness: “Silent flows the river Don / A yellow moon looks quietly on” (Lines 1-2). An unspoken tragedy haunts this scene: The moon “sees through the window a shadow of you” (Line 4). This unknown “you” is someone “[g]ravely ill” (Line 5) and isolated, a woman who has been robbed of those closest to her. Akhmatova closes by turning to divine help: “Say a prayer for her instead” (Line 8). Akhmatova’s reference to praying suggests that perhaps there might be a power higher than Stalin’s that can at last ease the suffering of the innocent.

“Poem III” is a snapshot of the depth of Akhmatova’s suffering. She begins by seeking to disassociate herself from her trauma, protesting, “It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't. / Not like this” (Lines 1-2). Desperate for release from her pain, Akhmatova seeks to hide: “Everything that has happened / Cover it with a black cloth / Then let the torches be removed. . .” (Lines 2-4). Akhmatova’s desperation and denial speaks to the struggle between memory and forgetfulness that reoccurs throughout the cycle.

In “Poem IV” Akhmatova reflects upon the way in which suffering has transformed her life and that of her country into something virtually unrecognizable. She addresses her younger self directly as “everyone's darling / The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo” (Lines 1-2). She recognizes how shocked her younger self would be by her current transformation into this grieving mother anxious for her imprisoned son, waiting in line with many other worried wives and mothers: “That you would stand, parcel in hand / Beneath the Crosses, three hundredth in / line” (Lines 5-7). Akhmatova once again links her personal tragedy to that of wider national suffering, noting how, “Back and forth the prison poplar sways / With not a sound” (Lines 10-11). As so often in this cycle, suffering is both a transformative experience on a personal level and a communal reality in Soviet Russia as a whole.

In “Poem V,” Akhmatova turns to her life “seventeen months” (Line 1) after her son’s arrest. She speaks of the desperate measures to which she has been driven to try and free her son, admitting, “I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers / For you, my son and my horror” (Lines 3-4). This possibly alludes to an attempt at writing a pro-Stalin poem as a means of inspiring clemency. Suffering has led to such extremes of dehumanization with people treated more like animals than people; Akhmatova claims she “can no longer distinguish / Who is an animal, who a person, and how long / The wait can be for an execution” (Lines 6-8).

In Line 11, Akhmatova writes of “Tracks from somewhere into nowhere,” a possible allusion to how many prisoners disappeared without a trace into forced labor camps. She once again uses star imagery, referring to Stalin’s ubiquitous and terrifying reach: “An enormous star” (Line 14) that “threaten[s] me with swift annihilation” (Line 13).

In “Poem VI,” Akhmatova shifts the time frame ahead by an unspecified number of “weeks” (Line 1). She speaks of her continuing shock in the face of all that has happened: “I cannot understand what has arisen” (Line 2). She contrasts the apparent tranquility of the night outside with the horrors of her son’s situation, as “into your prison / White nights stare so brilliantly” (Lines 3-4). She refers again to the omnipresent threat of the Stalinist regime, as though her son were prey, writing of “Eyes that focus like a hawk” (Line 6). She invokes religious imagery in the concluding lines, “And, upon your cross, the talk / Is again of death (Lines 7-8).” It as though Lev, like Jesus, is condemned to suffer through no fault of his own.

The Verdict/To Death (Poems VII-IX)

In “Poem VII: The Verdict,” Akhmatova describes how a court’s judgement—either toward her son or another victim—“landed with a stony thud / Onto my still-beating breast” (Lines 1-2). This time she responds with weary resignation instead of emotional turmoil or defiance: “Nevermind, I was prepared / I will manage with the rest” (Lines 3-4), “the rest” possibly alluding to all the other people suffering in similar situations. The cycle’s thematic preoccupation with memory and forgetting appears again, with Akhmatova deciding that, to survive this ordeal, she must “slaughter memory / [And] Turn my living soul to stone” (Lines 6-7).

Defiance is not entirely absent in this poem: Akhmatova states her determination to “teach myself to live again” (Line 8). There is a contrast between the apparent tranquility of the scene outside and the turmoil faced within, just as there was in the contrast between Lev’s prison and the nighttime in Poem VI. Here, Akhmatova describes the summer weather as “a carnival outside my window” (Line 10) as she faces the cruel contrast between “a bright day and a deserted house” (Line 12).

Both “Poem VIII” and “Poem IX” are grouped under the section “To Death.” In “Poem VIII,” Akhmatova addresses Death directly using the device of apostrophe, where “the poet addresses an absent person, an abstract idea, or a thing.” (“Apostrophe (poetry),” grammarist.com.) She treats Death as though it were a person she could speak to, addressing it from the depths of her despair, darkly reasoning: “You will come anyway—so why not now?” (Line 1). In comparison to the hell she is living through, Death appears to be “so simple and so wonderful” (Line 4). Akhmatova claims she would welcome it by any means: As exploding like “a shell of noxious gas” (Line 6), attacking her “Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon” (Line 7), as “poison” (Line 8). She suggests that perhaps Death could take the form of a trumped-up charge or a false denunciation— “a simple tale prepared by you” (Line 9)— that will lead to her arrest by the secret police. Akhmatova depicts herself as beyond the point of self-preservation, claiming, “I don’t care anymore” (Line 14). She again invokes celestial imagery, “[t]he Pole star blazes” (Line 15), to allude to Stalin and his power. Nothing is worth living for anymore, Akhmatova suggests.

In “Poem IX,” Akhmatova offers a portrait of her mental state: “Madness with its wings / Has covered half my soul” (Lines 1-2) and tempts her with despair and self-destruction. Akhmatova describes her suffering as a relentless accumulation of tragedies, including “my son's frightening eyes” (Line 13), “prison visiting hours” (Line 15), and “days that end in storms” (Line 16). Akhmatova is also tormented by the memory of lost touch and comfort.

Crucifixion/Epilogue (Poem X and Epilogue)

Poem X is titled “Crucifixion” and divided into two short parts of four lines each. As the name suggests, Akhmatova draws upon the biblical story of Christ and his death on the cross to create a portrait of timeless suffering. Both parts focus on the Virgin Mary as a witness to her son’s death. In the first part, Akhmatova recalls Christ’s lamentation to God on the cross: “‘Why hast thou forsaken me!'” (Part I, Line 3) in contrast to what she imagines him saying to his mother, “‘Weep not for me. . .’” (Part I, Line 4).

In Part II, it is clear that in spite of Christ’s injunction, the women who witness his death are deeply affected. Mary Magdalen “smote herself and wept” (Part II, Line 1), while his mother stood by “silent” (Part II, Line 3), as though too shocked or traumatized to speak. Akhmatova depicts the Virgin Mary as an especially isolated figure, whose pain is so great that “[n]ot one person dared to look” (Line 4) at her. This brief retelling of the biblical tale functions as an allegory; the suffering of Christ is analogous to the horror experienced by the innocent victims of the Terror. The Virgin Mary represents the bereaved mothers who must witness the suffering of those they love, just as Akhmatova must with her own son.

There are two parts to the “Epilogue” section of Requiem. In the first part, Akhmatova revisits the trauma she experienced during the Terror, remarking that she “learned how faces fall / How terror can escape from lowered eyes” (Lines 1-2). She describes the physical effects of trauma from premature aging, the feeble ways in which some tried to mask their sorrow and fear: “The fading smiles upon submissive lips / The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh” (Lines 7-8). As she has done earlier in the cycle, Akhmatova turns to prayer as a source of solace, using it to show solidarity with her fellow victims and recalling those she waited in line with outside the prison: “That's why I pray not for myself / But all of you who stood there with me” (Lines 9-10). Although her own experiences have been harrowing, Akhmatova’s determination to retain empathy for others and pray—as well as write— on their behalf speaks to her unbroken spirit, and offers a glimmer of hope in the midst of so much darkness.

In the second and final section of the “Epilogue,” Akhmatova brings together past, present, and future to speak about memory. She opens the section by announcing: “The hour has come to remember the dead” (Line 1)—those who, unlike Akhmatova, did not survive the Terror. As in the first part, Akhmatova turns to empathy and solidarity as a bulwark against the dehumanizing effects of dictatorship. She reassures the dead, imagining their various forms of suffering: “I see you, I hear you, I feel you” (Line 2). Akhmatova acknowledges that the dictatorship has worked hard to suppress the memory of these victims, admitting, “I'd like to name you all by name, but the list / Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look” (Lines 8-9). In spite of the dictatorship’s purposeful erasure, Akhmatova is defiant: She will memorialize the victims in her poetry.

Earlier in the cycle, Akhmatova was tempted by oblivion and even death to escape her suffering. Here, however, she is determined to live on and remember everything in honor of those who were destroyed, vowing “Everywhere, forever and always / I will never forget one single thing. Even in new / grief” (Lines 13-15). She also promises that she will resist the regime’s attempts to silence her, speaking of her “tormented mouth / Through which one hundred million people scream” (Lines 16-17). As a final act of defiance, Akhmatova declares that if Russia wishes to build a monument to her in the future, she will not object, but only on the condition that they “[b]uild it here where I stood for three hundred hours [outside the prison] / And no-one slid open the bolt” (Lines 28-29). Akhmatova clings to memory as her most powerful tool against oppression, worrying that death might make her forget what she saw during the Terror. She concludes the “Epilogue” with imagery of a “prison dove coo[ing] in the distance / While ships sail quietly along the river” (Lines 36-37). The “dove” suggests possible peace and reconciliation for Russia in the future, but its habitation on the walls of the “prison” serves as a reminder of this tragic chapter in Russia’s past.