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!
Your sensual form
ReplyDeletespooning with my hand
as you exude lovely colors
gliding across paper.
As my written extension,
ReplyDeleteallow 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.
From majestic Mont Blanc
ReplyDeleteTo 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.
Pens
ReplyDeleteFine 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
Pens
ReplyDeleteFine 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
Broad tipped or fine
ReplyDeletethe 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
Title: Pens of past, present, future
ReplyDeletePens 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?
Nothing on my plate
ReplyDeleteI 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”
too heavy for some,,, to REAL for Many....
ReplyDeleteA Haiku for Iroshizushi:
ReplyDeleteBaystate Concord GrapeKilled my Al-Star. My new friend?
Iroshizushi.
Whoops. Spacing issues.
ReplyDeleteBaystate Concord GrapeKilled my Al-Star. My new friend?Iroshizushi.
I give up.
ReplyDeleteI think you mean :
ReplyDelete"Baystate Concord Grape
Killed my Al-Star. My new friend?
Iroshizuku."
When I Write To You, I Love
ReplyDeletenot 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.
this is the version I want to send - with the correct line breaks -
ReplyDeleteWhen 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.
There really are some issues with formatting here in the comment boxes... how can we correct them? :)
ReplyDeleteYes! Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure the grid in this Rhodia notebook will help me with my spacing issues when I win. :)
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.
ReplyDeleteone page flows to the next
ReplyDeleteone word
one line
one drawing,
time measured by the scratch
of a pen
and the turn of a page.
one page flows
ReplyDeletethe next turns
a line,
a word,
time measured
the scratch of a pen.
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
ReplyDeleteTime taken and hand-written
ReplyDeleteA show of love with ink pen and paper
Cursive on pure cotton rag means more
Than a free e-card any day
Thank you... there just needs to be a line break after "not the instrument itself,/" (I've indicated the break with the slash/virgule.)
ReplyDeleteTravel of the P-51
ReplyDeleteFrom 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.
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
ReplyDeleteHand 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
ReplyDeleteHand 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
ReplyDeleteSorry this comment section is a little buggy for me, please excuse multiple click-throughs. Things are simply disappearing.
ReplyDeleteSome stories are best written
ReplyDeleteout 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.
Some stories are best written
ReplyDeleteout 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.