Here On Earth (NYQ Books 2026) is a raw collection of poetry that explores the hauntingly complex and beautiful experience that is life as we know it. Tony Gloeggler explores a system of themes regarding death, grief, health, aging, love, and familial ties, all of which are the most intricate yet humane ideologies we face at one point or another. The writing forms a vision about the growing pains that we experience throughout our lifetimes, brought on by connection and aging. 

To think of what the title Here On Earth meant is a powerful idea on its own; I mean, what do I experience here on this moving planet? How big and expansive, yet so small and connected? After my own pondering, I was instantly pulled into the work and hit with a powerful composition of human experience. This book allowed me to walk through the lens of another’s perspective, to feel their grief and nostalgia, and for a moment, it felt wholly my own. That is the praise I want to emphasize about the collection–that the work is unique in its own perspective but written in a way that conveys connectedness through the aspects of life that are familiar to most. I adored the simplicity of the storytelling that twists itself into the existential ideology of what it means to live.

One poem that embodied the way our lives are so interconnected yet uniquely different is “Still Alright.” The poem starts off with the mention of a friend who has a seemingly traditional family unit, experiencing the paternal phase where his children think they have outgrown the need for his love and advice. This is the part that captured my attention at first, something I have experienced in my lifetime: dodging my mother’s kisses and avoiding her guiding words, rejecting the idea that we still need our parents. It’s not until we grow a tad older that we realize how much we still need the comfort they bring us. This poem really is ingrained with that parental love, but also shows that it can be given and needed in a not-so-traditional example. This is seen in lines like:

sad as he talks about his kids
turning into teenagers, the girl
who won’t lean over in the front seat
to kiss his cheek when he drops

her off at school, afraid her friends
can see, his son no longer wanting
to play backyard basketball, a game
of HORSE, sitting at the dinner table,
head down staring at his phone, one
word answers seasoned with annoyance.

Following the stanza about his friend Tony, we are introduced to Jesse. Jesse is twenty-six and is autistic; our speaker has a paternal bond with him, doing his best to maintain the kind of consistency Jesse needs. Even though the prior relationship the author had with Jesse’s mother has long been gone, he was still a present parental figure to Jesse throughout his life until recently. In these lines we see why our author is no longer able to visit Jesse and how much of a toll it takes on him emotionally even though Jesse is not his biological son–“but I’m still thinking about Jesse and me, / his mom and her email saying I can’t visit him / anymore because I write about him. Poems / like this.” This causes a similar disconnect as Tony is having with his teenage children. I think it is a beautiful example of how the kind of parental bond is not exclusive to situational circumstances but outlasts the tests of time. Very well-written in the way comparing Tony’s traditional family and his own non-traditional version of fatherhood. “I think of talking to my friend, not / sure he will understand what Jesse means / to me or why I didn’t simply stop writing / about him like his mom asked, how inseparable / is my life’s story from my poems anyway?”

The entire collection is an ode to connectedness, allowing readers to find solace in relatable themes that can sometimes be hard to digest. It explores the unique identity and experiences the author has been through, while also showing the vulnerability of hardship. Reading about the encounters another person faces in their life allows room for introspection, finding similarities and complex distinctions in our lives. A lovely read for all those looking for community in their own grief. 

Order your copy from NYQ Books today!

Miranda Spurlock is 21 years old and a cat mom of one, but if you count the feral cats who use their charming manipulation on her (their cute faces), she is a cat mom of 4-8 on any given day. She loves the color pink; she is very fond of fairies and escaping into a book is what she does best. Spurlock prides herself on creativity and has tried almost every hobby there is to try. She is currently a senior at UTK where she is majoring in Business Management and minoring in English.

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present Poetry Xfit hosted by Rosa Castellano. This generative workshop event will take place on Sunday, October 25th, from 2 to 4 pm EST via Zoom. Join us at the link tiny.utk.edu/poetryxfit.

Poetry Xfit isn’t about throwing tires or heavy ropes, but the idea of confusing our muscles is the same. You will receive ideas, guidelines, and more as part of this generative workshop series in order to complete three poems in two hours. A new set of prompts will be provided after the writers have written collaboratively for thirty minutes. The goal is to create material that can be later modified and transformed into artwork rather than producing flawless final versions. The event is open to prose authors as well!

The theme for October’s Xfit is Hauntings. Give yourself time to search for and interrogate the creatures that have been occupying your world. Feel free to question whether they scare or comfort you, how long they’ve been lingering, and if you want them to stay or to drive them out through writing.

Originally from Tampa, Fl, Rosa Castellano is the co-founder of the Richmond Poetry Festival and one of two Poet Laureates currently working on poetry projects for the City of Richmond VA. Her writing appears in Poetry Northwest, Guernica, Bomb, Write or Die, and Lit Hub among others. Her debut poetry collection, All is the Telling, is available now from Diode editions.

This event is brought to you in part by a grant provided by the Tennessee Arts Commission. 

While this is a free event, donations can be made to the Sundress Academy for the Arts here.

The Sundress Academy for the Arts is excited to present “Ghosting the Self: Writing Through What We Avoid,” a free writing workshop led by Jason Masino on Wednesday, October 14th from 6:00-7:30 PM EST. This event will be held over Zoom. Register for the event today!

Every writer has subjects they circle but never quite touch. Sometimes it’s a memory, a contradiction, an obsession, or a version of themselves that doesn’t fit the story they’re trying to tell. In this generative workshop, we’ll explore the gaps, omissions, and recurring patterns that shape our work from the margins. Through discussion, close reflection, and writing exercises, participants will identify what they tend to avoid on the page and experiment with new approaches to writing through resistance rather than around it. Writers of all genres and experience levels are welcome.

While there is no fee to participate in this workshop, those who are able and appreciative may make donations directly Jason Masino via Venmo: @Jason-Masino-5, PayPal: jason.masino@gmail.com, or Cash App: $JasonMasino1987

Jason Masino is a poet and program builder whose work explores identity, belonging, contradiction, and the uneasy process of living with the parts of ourselves we are taught to reject. He holds a BA from the University of California, Davis and an MFA in Creative Writing from Regis University. His work has appeared in publications including Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora and South Florida Poetry Journal. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and also works across higher education, public service, and community engagement.

This event is made possible by a generous grant from the Tennessee Arts Commission.

When I was a child, my mom used to have me write short stories like I was training for a marathon, running endless miles around the figurative track.

Here is how it went: she would tell me to go write something, I would run off with some paper, and return with a sloppy fable about talking bears, to which she would give some vague praise and prompt me to go write another. I’m still not quite sure if her intent was to help me become a better writer, or to get me to stop pestering her for 15 minute intervals. It was probably both, but it’s something that I remain grateful for. Though that manuscript of Aesop knock-offs is now lost to time.

I’ve been deemed a “writer” for my whole life. It’s the first thing I mention when people ask me to “tell them a little bit about myself.” It’s the crux of my identity, but to be honest, I’ve never been completely assured of its meaning. A writer is not something you can finish becoming, like a runner practicing to win that one race. It’s also not something you can evaluate very easily skill-wise. I can’t track my speed or agility, and I can never really be sure if I am a “good writer.” Sure, I got high accolades from my parents and my teachers, but it was practically their jobs to be encouraging. So, really, how can you ever tell if what you’re putting down is worth anything? This question built an imprisoning sort of headspace that I caged myself into for much of my existence as a writer. I was constantly wondering the value of my work, and if it amounted at all to what the people around me were creating. Everything I made felt too derived, too underdeveloped, too forgettable.

I don’t know when exactly I started letting go of this (frankly, quite ridiculous) mentality, but I can say that my Introduction to Poetry Writing class I took two semesters ago certainly helped swing the door open. I was deeply enamored with this class; the opportunity to write poetry for critique from a group of fellow writers was incredibly valuable to me. I spent months crafting long-form narrative poems, inspired by the fairytale essence of Wilde’s The Star-Child, and brought them to class eager for feedback. But in the middle of that excitement, I felt that familiar fear crawling back: is what I’m writing good enough? Then, one of the other students in my class brought in his own narrative poem, similar in style to mine, and immediately, my brain broke out in questions like hives: Are our poems too similar? Is his better? Does mine amount to his at all?

On the last day of class, I got my answer in a way that humbled me. My professor told us about how he hoped we’d never see writing, or creating art, as a competition, and how it isn’t about being successful. As he was saying this, I almost felt embarrassed, because duh. The best part about writing is putting human experience into words, and somewhere along the line, all my anxiety had led me to have forgotten this; I had forgotten how much I enjoy just the act of writing itself, of running in laps around my mom with my fables. As long as I enjoyed the process, and if I was proud of my result, then really, that’s all that should matter. Not anyone else’s approval or anyone else’s work.

I can’t say that this epiphany has forever changed me. I still freak out over whether my metaphors are too clichéd, and I still sometimes panic over whether my work will be seen as “good” by others. But I’ve learned to stop letting those worries overtake the process, and to allow myself to enjoy what has always been one of my favorite parts of myself. So I’ll continue to write, and whether or not I’m eventually called a “good writer,” I’ll hopefully be proud of what I’ve created, and that will be enough.

Dia Manoj (she/her) is a lover of reading, writing, and coding. She is a junior at The University of Tennessee, double majoring in Computer Science and English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She has developed several software projects, including an iOS app, and loves finding ways to combine her passion for storytelling and technology. She explores this fusion through her self-built writing website, diamanoj.com. Outside of her creative endeavors, she enjoys London fogs, vampires, and pestering her loved ones.