Poem ‘Amsterdam’

Poet Adrienne Slomp district north of Amsterdam was inspired by the city and wrote the following poem:

The city is a book
even those who do not want to read
explains the IJ
shiny ribbon
exposing the words
streets are
between the lines
behind every facade
lies a life
curve rose
each sentence Hide
what is not allowed to see light
the gutters flowing
the beating blood
Counting towers lived hours
call it off
old sounds reverberating
triumph that no one understands
squares give space
seeking to eyes
peace parks fenced
respite for those who do not wish
the embrace of the canals
sigh language is loose
of the past
shows the dirt
in all its beauty
flowing away from shore Fri
and shall be open
the IJ

Adri Slomp (Translated)


Wim Moerenhout, the gray poet of Osdorp, has responded to our call and up to three poems sent to Amsterdam. Here’s the poem A MOKUMER.


A mokumer can not live without injected,
The humor he finds in the street every day,
Enjoy it to give tit for tat
And performs like you mean it but not bad.

Try it decides not to command,
Overlapped commands he ever be ignored,
Posh people can not appreciate
Has moved quickly when he sees something bad.

Oh, Amsterdam, your children are figures,
That is sometimes difficult sometimes loyal,
That makes you an interesting story.

Coils that have described in Carmiggelt
And many of your character appears,
He’d love you if you’re not normal.

Wim Moerenhout,
The gray poet of Osdorp

Poem OSDORP, Past and Present ‘

Wim Moerenhout, the gray poet of Osdorp, wrote the poem OSDORP, Past and Present.

OSDORP, Past and Present.

Reminded of it previously Osdorp
there will be a peace in me.
Not far from my parents’ house on foot,
half floor in a narrow,
gloomy street, was the adventure for me:
the gardens, greenhouses, fields, ditches.

And when in winter the locks had been frozen
I could, the city boy, tying the skates,
escape the stuffiness of the city,
enjoying the vastness around me.
Land with a house here and there.
People who edited a piece of land,
A life of hard work, but not wealth.
Sounds and smells, the silence from me that toewaaiden,
crowing roosters, hens cackling,
grunting pig, smells of manure.

I skate sometimes to the church of Locks,
I tied it by the wooden runners off.
Discovered a calmness that was beneficial,
some shops, a cafe and at the church
the resting place of the dead.
Back home, low sunlight conjured
landscape with a mystical shadows.
At night I fell asleep like a log,
I dreamed that day had witnessed.


After the hunger winter the city got a new Hunger:
to attend larger, wider at houses.
Triest based in the old country
violence of thick tubes, pistons slorpende
and rooting using graafmonters.
The soil in garden areas, greenhouses, fields, ditches
was doomed to wear a city.

Sadly sighed the thick sprayed country
under rainy skies, wet and cold in winter,
dry and cracked open in spring and summer.
Dust clouds caused than for desert landscapes.

Finally, the unorganized nature of past years,
there were roads, streets, buildings,
parks, lakes, sports fields, office blocks.
What was far away in my memory, almost too far.

Because I, like many, left the old neighborhood
where my youth had lived.
I have been living a long lifetime
in the garden city, once an adventure
areas of the garden, greenhouses, fields and ditches.

Wim Moerenhout
The gray poet of Osdorp


Poem “The Sloterplas”

Here’s the poem that the Sloterplas Wim Moerenhout, the gray poet of Osdorp, specially made for the Amsterdam World Book Capital.


You create space for water
midst of a young city.
Wherever I am at your bank,
I see a vastness, the colors
receives from the sky.

The water moved by wind,
gives me endless patterns.
Sometimes windless hours
a puzzle for you
light and dark. And a
lone fishing boat
strengthens your silence.

The sand from your game,
buried in the country when
and gave a foothold to
hundreds of blocks.

But nature, which was
partly remained
because you vast water
surrounded by waving reeds,
by grass, bushes and trees,
continued to give breath
the living man.

Who created you,
We knew that without nature
can not live.

Wim Moerenhout
The gray poet of Osdorp


Poem ‘world book capital Amsterdam: a very long book’

Borough ZuiderAmstel Poet, Charles EN Grazell, made his second poem about Amsterdam World Book Capital! We still call all the poets in their poems district of Amsterdam World Book Capital to us e-mail .

world book capital Amsterdam:

a very long book

The old city is a market. A market
the old city: stalls with many miles.
Tons, hundreds of tons of books
pressing the peat soil of many centuries.
And every book you can browse inside.
Go and sit sprawled in the words and
choose the left or right edge of a dialogue.
Ask an indirect object glass
and snacks to serve on the pages of language.
Turn up your vowels Bredero’s songs
Julius Röntgen hear.
Then walk with Kylian and Kouwenaar,
with Presser and Willem Pijper:
through the trees as metaphors
are meditating in a plot of canals
(Talking, but stay humble like a adverb).
Late at night, when the sun as a
direct object is gone, do
the sentences with a pennenstreekje love
with a grammatical passion ready.
And in the night breeze as a vast space
depends on the punctuation of the stars
you dream that your life is a big book,
published in the book world city
and that you find in all those miles:
that book you’re writing yourself.

Charles EN Grazell
first quarter of poet ZuiderAmstel
and the third of Amsterdam


Poem Amsterdam World Book Capital 2008

Borough ZuiderAmstel Poet, Charles EN Grazell made the first poem of Amsterdam World Book Capital.

World Book Capital 2008

Who does not love the words-
loses its value.
whose words bruises
and knevelt, affects all
freedom lost.

that is the sense of being, which
Century after century has taught
books by my city,
all those books to his
streets, with its canals
written and put,
bound and released:

Who does not love the words-
loses its value.
whose words bruises
and knevelt, affects all
freedom lost.

read on the battlefields
of how the pages
writers (such as Erasmus.
Coornhert and Multatuli
and many others) in the
books of my city,
centuries challenged books
free to think – it
true, and worthy
and just to be:

Who does not love the words-
loses its value.
whose words bruises
and knevelt, affects all
freedom lost.

Charles EN Grazell
first quarter of poet ZuiderAmstel
and the third of Amsterdam