4.06.2012

Fine Writing Giveaway in Honor of National Poetry Month


Here at Goldspot, we love to encourage any action that puts pen to paper. Whether it comes in the form of journaling, writing poetry, note-taking, drawing, and doodling, etc., any excuse to take out your beautiful writing instrument is worthwhile. In honor of National Poetry Month, we would like to run a little giveaway to foster some creativity amongst our readers, who are mostly very creative (whether or not they know it).

Now's the time to let your inner Shakespeare shine...


The Prize : A Rhodia Webnotebook (5.5" x 8.5" size) with your choice of grid, lined or blank pages to capture your writing, thoughts and anything in between.

How Do I Enter? : Leave a comment on this post with a poem that is original and uniquely written by you. The Topic - PENS, of course. Write about your love of writing instruments, the deep feeling of regret in losing your favorite pen, the need to restore sanity with ink and paper. The poem should at least be 3 lines, but is not required to rhyme. You have until Friday, April 13th at 2pm (Eastern US Time) to enter.

The Winner : Since poetry is very subjective in judging, the lucky recipient of the Rhodia Webbie will be randomly selected from the entries that we receive. If there are a few that really stand out, we may also send out honorable mention prizes as well. Winner will be announced Friday afternoon, April 13th.

As the entries come rolling in, we may share them with our Facebook and Twitter followers to encourage more people to enter. Please share with as many pen-lovers and creative writers as you can! Thanks for reading!

30 comments:

  1.  Your sensual form
    spooning with my hand
    as you exude lovely colors
    gliding across paper.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Rsaintlouis94(Randy)April 6, 2012 at 9:07 PM

     As my written extension,
    allow me to heal the beating of my dreary mind
    by hearing the sount of the flight of the words like the Ridder has come alive at the page.
    My fountain pen turns me into a different being
    An architect
    Binding words into an unmoveable structure with longevity.

    ReplyDelete
  3. From majestic Mont Blanc
    To a Pelikan’s perch at the sea
    A Waterman watches, wonders and writes
    Life lessons recorded for me.
     
    Visconti’s vision is captured on paper
    Montegrappo depth makes me think,
    Cartier and Pineider create new media lovers
    Through traditional paper and ink
     
    deVarese and Jack on a Row beside Omas
    are lovely to look at and hold,
    So many more have recorded our history
    Since Tibaloi first opened their door.
     
    Nothing’s quite like a fountain pen in my hand
    An instrument solid and bold
    The pen will enlighten, defend and create
    A better, more beautiful world.
     
    Pick up one today.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Pens

    Fine Point
    Crowquill
    Gen
    Fountain
    And Ballpoint
    So many to choose
    So many to lose
    They clip to your pocket
    And then take off like a rocket
    You can find them at a store
    That's where I found one to care for
    Red, Blue, Black, and White
    So many colors 
    So do them an honor
    Pick the right one
    And now I am done

    ReplyDelete
  5. Pens

    Fine Point
    Crowquill
    Gell
    Fountain
    And Ballpoint
    So many to choose
    So many to lose
    They clip to your pocket
    And then take off like a rocket
    You can find them at a store
    That's where I found one to care for
    Red, Blue, Black, and White
    So many colors 
    So do them an honor
    Pick the right one
    And now I am done

    ReplyDelete
  6. Broad tipped or fine
    the lines extend from
    their source the rivers
    of tears the rivers of
    fears and the surging
    rivers of joy that covers
    them all from the rivers
    of ink immemorial

    ReplyDelete
  7. Title: Pens of past, present, future

    Pens of past, present, and future
    Brush pens
    Reed pens
    Quill pens
    Dip pens
    Fountain pens
    Ballpoint pens
    Gel pens
    Stylus pens
    Pens of past, present, and future
    What will we think of next?

    ReplyDelete
  8. Nothing on my plate


    I never feel great


    Chasing the dragon,
    my fate


    In the land, we can
    find in every state


     


    Children trying


    Mommy’s crying


    Daddy’s buying


    In the land, where
    “Rocks” are felt worth dying


     


    Girls growing old


    Selling themselves
    bold


    Beat, for not doing
    what told


    In the land, where
    souls get sold


     


    No one prays above


    No one finds true
    love


    Living by push and
    shove


    In the land, where
    drugs replace the dove


     


    Everyone wishes to
    stop


    and Write, Before they drop


    But my pen has lost it's top


    In the land, where dreams and lives go “ker-plop”


     

    ReplyDelete
  9. too heavy for some,,,  to REAL for Many.... 

    ReplyDelete
  10. A Haiku for Iroshizushi:

    Baystate Concord GrapeKilled my Al-Star. My new friend?
    Iroshizushi.

    ReplyDelete
  11. Whoops.  Spacing issues.

    Baystate Concord GrapeKilled my Al-Star. My new friend?Iroshizushi.

    ReplyDelete
  12. I think you mean :
    "Baystate Concord Grape

    Killed my Al-Star. My new friend?

    Iroshizuku."

    ReplyDelete
  13. When I Write To You, I Love

    not the instrument itself,but the way it moves across the grain
    of paper: the way the lines scroll
    through misty rain, trailing 
    the hush of bamboo forests,
    the solemn march of letters formed,
    brown rows of wild chestnut
    and field horsetail; the shy blush
    of Kosumosu fall cherries, the tender
    ocher of rice ears. But to tell you again
    of how I feel for you, I would choose
    either the vivid purple of morning glories---
    or better yet, a little sleeve of Murasaki
    laid against the backdrop of Tsuki-yo Night Sky.
     

    ReplyDelete
  14. this is the version I want to send - with the correct line breaks -

    When I Write To You, I Lovenot the instrument itself,
    but the way it moves across the grainof paper: the way the lines scrollthrough misty rain, trailing the hush of bamboo forests,the solemn march of letters formed,brown rows of wild chestnutand field horsetail; the shy blushof Kosumosu fall cherries, the tenderocher of rice ears. But to tell you againof how I feel for you, I would chooseeither the vivid purple of morning glories---or better yet, a little sleeve of Murasakilaid against the backdrop of Tsuki-yo Night Sky. 

    ReplyDelete
  15. There really are some issues with formatting here in the comment boxes... how can we correct them? :)

    ReplyDelete
  16. Yes!  Thank you.

    I'm sure the grid in this Rhodia notebook will help me with my spacing issues when I win.  :)

    ReplyDelete
  17. I don't believe there is a way to go back an edit a comment, even as the author or administrator. I thought yours was quite lovely, even if it has format or spacing issues.

    ReplyDelete
  18. bonnie jean woolgerApril 12, 2012 at 9:48 AM

    one page flows to the next
    one word
    one line
    one drawing,
    time measured by the scratch
    of a pen 
    and the turn of a page.

    ReplyDelete
  19. bonnie jean woolgerApril 12, 2012 at 9:50 AM

    one page flows 
    the next turns
    a line,
    a word,
    time measured 
    the scratch of a pen.

    ReplyDelete
  20. Time taken and hand-writtenA show of love with ink pen and paperCursive on pure cotton rag means moreThan a free e-card any day

    ReplyDelete
  21. Time taken and hand-written
    A show of love with ink pen and paper

    Cursive on pure cotton rag means more

    Than a free e-card any day

    ReplyDelete
  22. Thank you... there just needs to be a line break after "not the instrument itself,/" (I've indicated the break with the slash/virgule.)

    ReplyDelete
  23. Travel of the P-51


     


    From the piers of Shanghai to the harbors of Hong Kong,


    my grandfather carried this green and gold Parker 51.


    Each day, businessmen would carry his signature to the bank,


    his name a promise their ships were sailing in.


     


    Later, my father would take the 51 to write my mother


    letters of love, news, and apology.  She’d receive


    their promise in a crowded apartment on 7th and I.


    From Hong Kong to Washington D.C.


     


    I hold it now and feel the balance, the weight.


    The ink vacuum had worn and the gold has turned bronze.


    But a man at Fahrney’s fixed my family’s 51.  And I am


    left with promise.


      

    ReplyDelete
  24. Hand knows what the heart seeks Lines and passages furrow the leaves To move thoughts from darkness to light Hand knows what the heart seeks Making marks to signing extraordinary fiats Missives opening spring blossoms of the soul Hand knows what the heart seeks Filled instruments both person and pen Love scribes spilling ink from the heart

    ReplyDelete
  25. Hand knows what the heart seeks Lines and passages furrowing the leaves To move thoughts from darkness to light Hand knows what the heart seeks Making marks to signing ardent fiats Missives opening spring blossoms of the soul Hand knows what the heart seeks Filled instruments both person and pen Love scribes spilling ink onto a willing pageHand knows what the heart seeksTo be heard, to be heard, to be heard

    ReplyDelete
  26. Hand knows what the heart seeks Lines and passages furrowing the leaves To move thoughts from darkness to light Hand knows what the heart seeks Making marks to signing extraordinary fiats Missives opening spring blossoms of the soul Hand knows what the heart seeks Filled instruments both person and pen Love scribes spilling ink onto willing pageHand knows what the heart seeksTo be heard, to be heard, to be heard

    ReplyDelete
  27. Sorry this comment section is a little buggy for me, please excuse multiple click-throughs. Things are simply disappearing. 

    ReplyDelete
  28. Some stories are best written
    out by hand,


    in fine black ink with an
    old-fashioned


     


    fountain pen with a modest,
    polished


    carriage and a solid but
    flexible nib—


     


    for instance, this story
    about how


    my mother was a farmer’s
    daughter


     


    who married a lawyer twenty
    years


    her senior. They met the
    summer she


     


    tended the cash register at
    The Midway


    Restaurant and bar in a
    sleepy northern


     


    town on the coast, trying to
    put herself


    through college. When I was a
    girl,


     


    she recounted how he used to
    come in


    with the same group of his
    friends in law


     


    school, not so young men
    newly hopeful


    in a world after war, all
    wearing suits


     


    despite the infernal heat:
    ties, cravats, one


    good pen with its small gold
    arrow clipped


     


    like a talisman in the breast
    pocket. Oh


    but after food and a few
    rounds of drink,


     


    those ties were loosened, and
    even the shyest


    could make bold to stagger
    over to the counter


     


    to invite the girl with the
    perfectly shaped brows


    to sit at their table. In
    another version of this


     


    story, my mother says he threatened
    to break


    every single wineglass on the
    counter to get


     


    her attention if need be, if
    she refused.


    The rest, as they say, is
    history. A few


     


    months later, in the
    cathedral, as family


    and friends looked on (my
    mother’s poorer


     


    relations on one side of the
    church),


    they signed their vows: his
    signature


     


    looped and sprawling, hers neat
    and upright,


    every letter in its place, elegant
    as a pin.

    ReplyDelete
  29. Some stories are best written
    out by hand,


    in fine black ink with an
    old-fashioned


     


    fountain pen with a modest,
    polished


    carriage and a solid but
    flexible nib—


     


    for instance, this story
    about how


    my mother was a farmer’s
    daughter


     


    who married a lawyer twenty
    years


    her senior. They met the
    summer she


     


    tended the cash register at
    The Midway


    Restaurant and bar in a
    sleepy northern


     


    town on the coast, trying to
    put herself


    through college. When I was a
    girl,


     


    she recounted how he used to
    come in


    with the same group of his
    friends in law


     


    school, not so young men
    newly hopeful


    in a world after war, all
    wearing suits


     


    despite the infernal heat:
    ties, cravats, one


    good pen with its small gold
    arrow clipped


     


    like a talisman in the breast
    pocket. Oh


    but after food and a few
    rounds of drink,


     


    those ties were loosened, and
    even the shyest


    could make bold to stagger
    over to the counter


     


    to invite the girl with the
    perfectly shaped brows


    to sit at their table. In
    another version of this


     


    story, my mother says he threatened
    to break


    every single wineglass on the
    counter to get


     


    her attention if need be, if
    she refused.


    The rest, as they say, is
    history. A few


     


    months later, in the
    cathedral, as family


    and friends looked on (my
    mother’s poorer


     


    relations on one side of the
    church),


    they signed their vows: his
    signature


     


    looped and sprawling, hers neat
    and upright,


    every letter in its place, elegant
    as a pin.

    ReplyDelete