The Pinch Of Poverty Poem by Raj Arumugam

In Adelaide, July 1998
I saw
The Pinch of Poverty
(no, not a film;
it's a painting, oil on canvas,1889;
the painter: T.B.Kennington.
You might have seen it on TV, yes.)
Well, after my minstrel's wandering of the medieval section
of the Art Museum of South Australia
I moved up the steps
and on the left the family, it seemed, was waiting for me.
A woman, as I remember it now, her head
lowered and slanted to the left and a baby in her lap.
She sat on a low wall in the street
and her son, his face pale and afraid of the world,
his eyes uncommunicative,
stood leaning against her side. The daughter stood
on the pavement, as boldly as she could in the cold,
holding flowers for sale. And I stood before them.
I stood before
The Pinch of Poverty
and could not go.
Well, I went round the museum and came back;
three times I went and three times I came back
and stood before them.
I had to look at the sadness of this beautiful woman;
I had to look at the pained withdrawal of the boy,
I had to look for the baby's face and I had to look at
the girl's brave demeanor and
the delicate fingers that
held the flowers.
I stood there and denied them:
I am not the father; I am not the husband.
I could not go but I had to; I had to go
and I always wonder now when I am alone
what happened later to that beautiful mother. Whatever happened to her timorous son and her covered baby?
Whatever happened to that brave girl?
And as for me, what happened is that I have to live
with my guilt as I could not help.
I did not help.
I stood there and denied them:
I am not the father; I am not the husband.








(from The Migrant - notes of a newcomer (February 1997- July 1998)