Chinoiserie
English, French, Italian, I can write in all of these, but, at best, they are translations. I think in Chinese.
Kay Sage
SourceLicence:Public domain (US, unrenewed)
English, French, Italian, I can write in all of these, but, at best, they are translations. I think in Chinese.
The speaker lists three European languages she can write in, then admits that none of them feels truly her own. Each one, she says, is "at best" a translation. Her real mode of thinking is Chinese.
What makes the poem interesting is the gap it opens between expression and thought. Being able to write well in a language isn't the same as being at home in it. The speaker sounds calm, even matter-of-fact, but there's a quiet loneliness in the idea that everything she says passes through a kind of filter before it reaches other people. The last line, short and flat, lands like a confession.
The title, "Chinoiserie," usually means a European fashion for Chinese-style decoration, something imitative and ornamental. Set beside the poem's claim, it creates a playful tension: is the speaker's Chinese real, or is it a kind of private costume? The poem leaves that open, which gives it its slightly mysterious, wistful mood.