There are poets who write for literary journals that nobody reads. There are poets who write for tenure committees, for grant panels, for the careful approval of other poets. And then there are poets who write for the people sitting across from them on the subway, for the waitress who got stiffed on a Tuesday night, for the son who couldn’t talk to his father, for the daughter who couldn’t explain anything to her mother. Hal Sirowitz is that second kind of poet. Always has been.

I have known Hal for a long time. Long enough to watch how he moves through a room, how he reads to a crowd, how he holds a microphone like it is a conversation he is having with one specific person in the back row. He does not perform poetry. He delivers it. There is a difference. Performance is about the poet. Delivery is about the poem finding its person.

Hal Sirowitz — At a Glance

Queens, Not Manhattan

You have to understand where Hal comes from to understand what he does. He is from Flushing, Queens. Not the Village. Not the Upper West Side. Not some carefully curated Brooklyn neighborhood where everyone has an MFA and a book deal in the works. Queens. Which means he grew up around actual people — immigrants and their kids, workers, small business owners, people who had problems they could not afford to turn into art projects.

That geography matters. It shapes what a poet pays attention to. It shapes the voices that live inside the work. Hal’s poetry is full of mothers and fathers and therapists and doctors — the figures that ordinary working people actually deal with. Not mythology. Not abstraction. The person across the kitchen table. The voice on the other end of the phone. The authority figure who means well and says the wrong thing anyway.

“She told me I shouldn’t eat so fast. / She said it would give me a stomachache. / I told her I was twenty-three. / She said, I know how old you are. / I’m your mother.”— Hal Sirowitz, from Mother Said

That is from Mother Said, his first major collection, published in 1996 by Crown Publishers. It became one of those rare poetry books that people actually read on their own, without being assigned it. Not because it was comfortable. Because it was true. Because everyone who grew up in a family with complicated love in it — which is most of us — recognized something in those lines.

The Comedy of Grief

What Hal does that almost nobody else does well is dark Jewish humor at the service of real emotional pain. There is a long tradition here — in the Borscht Belt, in Philip Roth, in stand-up comedy from the same Queens and Brooklyn neighborhoods. The joke is how you survive. The punchline is where the sadness lives. Hal understands that completely.

His poems are often funny on the surface and devastating underneath. You laugh because you recognize something, and then you realize you are laughing at yourself. At your own family. At the way people who love each other find such specific ways to cause damage. That is not easy to do. Most poets who go for dark humor miss the grief entirely. Most poets who go for grief forget how to make it breathe. Hal gets both in the same short poem.

“His poems are funny on the surface and devastating underneath. You laugh because you recognize something, and then you realize you are laughing at yourself.”

The therapy poems — collected in My Therapist Said — do the same thing. They are comedies of the self-help era, of a generation that was told to talk about its problems and then discovered that talking about problems in an office fifty minutes a week does not necessarily solve them. But they are also genuinely touching. The speaker in those poems is trying to figure out how to live. Aren’t we all.

Working the Underground

I want to say something about how Hal built his reputation, because it matters for what came after. He did not do it through the academy. He did not do it through the usual New York literary connections. He did it by showing up. By reading his work anywhere and everywhere people would listen — open mics, small venues, community spaces, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, parks, bookstores. He put the poems in front of real audiences and let them respond.

That is a different path. It is slower and harder and less likely to get you reviewed in the right places. But it means something different when you find your audience that way. The people who love Hal’s work found it because it found them — not because a critic told them to love it, not because a syllabus included it, but because they heard it read aloud and it did something to them.

The underground poetry scene in New York during the late eighties and nineties was full of voices like that. People working outside the sanctioned institutions, building community through the work itself. Hal was part of that scene in a deep way. He still is. That independent spirit is not separate from his poetry — it is built into the DNA of how he writes and who he writes for.

Sample Poem — Style Reference, Mother Said

She told me not to get married too fast.
She said I needed to know a woman
for at least a year before I proposed.
I said I knew Cindy for three years.
But that's not what I call knowing, she said.
You only saw her in good situations.
You never saw her when she was suffering.
Wait till she's sick, she said,
then you'll know her true character.

Mental Health and the Working Life

One of the things people do not always know about Hal is that he worked for many years as a mental health counselor and special education teacher. He was not a full-time literary person living in subsidized artist housing. He was doing the actual work of helping people — people with limited resources, people navigating systems that were not designed for them, people who needed somebody to actually pay attention to what they were going through.

That experience is inseparable from the poetry. When Hal writes about therapy, he writes from both sides of the room. When he writes about the parent-child dynamic, he writes with clinical understanding of what those relationships actually do to people. The humor is not detached. It comes from someone who has watched closely, who has listened carefully, who understands the patterns. That is a different kind of authority than literary credibility. It is the authority of someone who has been in the room when the real conversation was happening.

Why He Still Matters

We are living through a moment where poetry is either totally inaccessible or completely disposable — either dense academic work that announces its own difficulty, or Instagram content designed to be consumed in eight seconds and forgotten. Hal’s work does not fit either category, which is exactly why it is important.

It is accessible without being simple. It is funny without being trivial. It deals with real human pain without performing suffering for an audience. It is built from the actual material of working-class American life without being nostalgic or sentimental about it. Those are hard things to balance simultaneously, and Hal does it in poems that are often only ten or twelve lines long.

When I think about what underground poetry does at its best, I think about exactly this: poetry that does not need an institution’s permission to matter. Poetry that finds its people and earns its place in their lives through the work itself. Hal has been doing that for decades. Quietly, consistently, without fanfare.

The most honest writing was always happening away from the gatekeepers. Hal Sirowitz understood that before most of us had words for it.— Ron Kolm

A Final Note

I said at the beginning that Hal writes for the person in the back row. I want to end with that thought because I think it is the whole thing.

Most of what passes for literary ambition in poetry is actually ambition toward a very small room of very credentialed people. That is not nothing — those rooms matter sometimes. But Hal has always been pointing toward the larger room. Toward the people who do not go to poetry readings, who do not subscribe to literary journals, who have never thought of themselves as poetry people. And somehow, when they encounter his work, they recognize it.

That recognition — the feeling of being seen by a piece of writing that was not made for you by someone with a degree in making things for you — is the rarest thing a poet can produce. It is what the underground has always been after. Hal Sirowitz has been delivering it quietly for a long time. He deserves to be read.

Ron KolmRon Kolm is a New York poet, editor, and longtime figure in the city’s underground literary scene. His work spans poetry, fiction, and cultural criticism. He has been a central voice in independent publishing and alternative arts communities for decades.