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The Eleventh Hour, of the Eleventh Day, of the Eleventh Month

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Dulce Et Decorum Est

Wilfred Owen


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.


Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.


Wilfred Owen: Dulce Et Decorum Est

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In Flanders Fields

By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)

Canadian Army


In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.


We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.


Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

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Cronaca: The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month


They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Conservative History Journal: On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month

All RSL (Returned Soldiers League) clubs in Australia used to say this at 9pm every night.

I don't know if they still do.



Eleventh Month, Eleventh Day, Eleventh Hour by Joseph Persico at eMusic

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  • 11 months later...


One in five of the Australians and New Zealanders who left their country to fight in the war never returned; 80,000 in total.


The USA suffered 57,476 fatal army casualties during the war. Of these, 967 were suicides, two thirds of which were committed within the US.


This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak

of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,

dominion or power,except War.


Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.

The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.

The Poetry is in the pity.

Yet these elegies are not to this generation,

This is in no sense consolatory.


They may be to the next.

All the poet can do to-day is to warn.

That is why the true Poets must be truthful.

If I thought the letter of this book would last,

I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives Prussia, --

my ambition and those names will be content; for they will have

achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders.



Note. -- This Preface was found, in an unfinished condition,

among Wilfred Owen's papers.


Parable of the Old Men and the Young



So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,

And took the fire with him, and a knife.

And as they sojourned both of them together,

Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,

Behold the preparations, fire and iron,

But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,

And builded parapets and trenches there,

And stretched forth the knife to slay his son.

When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,

Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,

Neither do anything to him. Behold,

A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;

Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . .



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take that back, here are known holidays associated with the date:

Holidays and observances


* Colombia - Independence of Cartagena, Colombia, from Spain (1811)

* Lāčplēsis Day (1919) in Latvia: the official date for commemoration of Latvian soldiers, who had died for the country's freedom.

* Angola - Independence Day (1975)

* Opening of carnival season in Germany ("Karneval"/"Fasching" on 11-11, at 11:11), the Netherlands, and other countries

* South Korea - Pepero Day

* Maldives - Republic Day (1968)


Several nations celebrate, in some way, the end of World War I, the ceasefire of which went into effect at 11:00am CET on this day in 1918.


* Veterans Day in the United States (called Armistice Day until 1952, when the name was changed, and the holiday was re-geared toward all military veterans)

* Armistice Day in New Zealand, France and Belgium

* Remembrance Day in the Commonwealth of Nations, including Australia and Canada.

* Poland - Independence Day (1918)


Feast day of:


* Bartholomew of Grottaferrata in the Roman Catholic Church

* Martin of Tours in the Roman Catholic Church

* St. Martin's Day in the Netherlands, Germany, Flanders, Austria, Portugal and Malta

* Saint Menas in the Roman Catholic Church

* Soren Kierkegaard in the Lutheran Church


Popular culture:


* Singles Day

* Twins Day (1987) in Taiwan: a festival for biological twins and other multiples. The eleventh day of the eleventh month (11-11) consists of the same numeral in pairs and symbolizes their characteristics.

source: November 11

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Sorry guys, not intend to spoil your poetic post...

but 11/11 is calledd The Bachelor Day here in China.

Wonder if you have the same thing at your side?

I guess there was a shortage of men after WW1.

Many Ozzies joined up at 15-16 YO no checks were made as to volunteers' age.

So most, no doubt, were bachelors.

By and large once the war ended the nuclear family in which the wife stayed home remained the norm, but the shortage of men meant that many women had to remain single and self-supporting. Certain job and educational opportunities were not generally available to women, although there were mavericks everywhere who quietly bucked the system.

How would ww1 have affected women? - Yahoo! UK & Ireland Answers

Now these bachelors are fertilising the fields of France and Turkey.



as far as i am aware, not really, i know that last 11/11/11 there was the biggest cold wave in the US history, many, many cities broke both the day's high and low temp records in the same day

A very cold day for very many, in cold earth.

Have we forgotten?


Some reminders


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  • 11 months later...



Out in the dust he lies;

Flies in his mouth,

Ants in his eyes ...



I stood at the door

Where he went out;

Full-grown man,

Ruddy and stout;



I heard the march

Of the trampling feet,

Slow and steady

Come down the street;



The beat of the drum

Was clods on the heart,

For all that the regiment

Looked so smart!



I heard the crackle

Of hasty cheers

Run like the breaking

Of unshed tears,



And just for a moment,

As he went by,

I had sight of his face,

And the flash of his eye.



He died a hero's death,

They said,

When they came to tell me

My boy was dead;



But out in the street

A dead dog lies;

Flies in his mouth,

Ants in his eyes.

168 hours: War, by Mary Gilmore


Mary Gilmore, "War", in Under the Wilgas, Robertson and Mullens, Melbourne, 1932, pp. 102-103.




Had he never been born he was mine:

Since he was born he never was mine:

Only the dream is our own.

Where the world called him there he went;

When the war called him, there he bent,

Now he is dead.


He was I; bone of my bone,

Flesh of my flesh, in truth;

For his plenty I gave my own,

His drouth was my drouth.

When he laughed I was glad,

In his strength forgot I was weak,

In his joy forgot I was sad

Now there is nothing to ask or to seek;

He is dead.


I am the ball the marksman sent,

Missing the end and falling spent;

I am the arrow, sighted fair

That failed, and finds not anywhere.

He who was I is dead.

Gallipoli by Dame Mary Gilmore DBE at Old Poetry



The married couples

Lie in their beds. The young women

Will bear orphans.

Bertolt Brecht; Poems 1913-1956


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The number eleven is 1 and 1. Unlike 10 (1 and 0) which is symbolic of male (1) and female (0), eleven symbolizes male and male. This has nothing to do with being gay, but is indicative of a society of males influencing males. Instead of the influence of the husband and wife (10) or son and mother (10 or male-female), it is son and a father, which is in this case is the male society of war. The female elements or 0, is not really a part, and laments the separation. She loses the son at birth.


The 11th hour, of the 11th day of the 11th month, symbolizes a trinity. It is analogous to body, spirit and soul, all of which is 11 or male influencing male. The army owns the son, in body, spirit and soul. Relative to duration, the month is the longest. This is probably the body, since the army owns the body, whether one is with the program or not. The middle cycle or day is the soul, which is the heart. One may be gun-ho or have the right heart, but this may end after the first battle. But the army still owns the body or the longer cycle. The shortest is the spirit or mind, which begins to question things. One may be in denial under the gun-ho emotion of winning. But even that ends but the body remains. It only ends when the body is like a dog in the street. Symbolism 101.

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  • 11 months later...

Eva Dobell's "Advent, 1916"



Advent 1916

I dreamt last night Christ came to earth again

To bless His own. My soul from place to place

On her dream-quest sped, seeking for His face

Through temple and town and lovely land, in vain.

Then came I to a place where death and pain

Had made of God's sweet world a waste forlorn,

With shattered trees and meadows gashed and torn,

Where the grim trenches scarred the shell-sheared plain.


And through that Golgotha of blood and clay,

Where watchers cursed the sick dawn, heavy-eyed,

There (in my dream) Christ passed upon His way,

Where His cross marks their nameless graves who died

Slain for the world's salvation where all day

For others' sake strong men are crucified.

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Song-Books Of The War

In fifty years, when peace outshines

Remembrance of the battle lines,

Adventurous lads will sigh and cast

Proud looks upon the plundered past.

On summer morn or winter's night,

Their hearts will kindle for the fight,

Reading a snatch of soldier-song,

Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;

And through the angry marching rhymes

Of blind regret and haggard mirth,

They'll envy us the dazzling times

When sacrifice absolved our earth.


Some ancient man with silver locks

Will lift his weary face to say:

'War was a fiend who stopped our clocks

Although we met him grim and gay.'

And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive,

Marvelling that any came alive

Out of the shambles that men built

And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt.

But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance,

Will think, 'Poor grandad's day is done.'

And dream of lads who fought in France

And lived in time to share the fun.


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Have you forgotten yet?…

For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,

Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:

And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow

Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,

Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.

But the past is just the same—and War's a bloody game…

Have you forgotten yet?…

Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.


Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz—

The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

Do you remember the rats; and the stench

Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench—

And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?

Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'


Do you remember that hour of din before the attack—

And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then

As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?

Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back

With dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-grey

Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?


Have you forgotten yet?…

Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/show/7111-Siegfried-Sassoon-Aftermath

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  • 2 months later...

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