dying of heartbreak in the bathrooms of foreign hotels....
hmm, i wouldn't advise it-- often as not, you'll
find that truly third-world bathrooms are "squatters".
which is to say, no toilet seat, just a trench in the
ground, surrounded by a puddle of everything imaginable.
"dying of heartbreak in foreign hotels", does have a nice
ring to it, i suppose-- but i suspect that you'll
find that the loneliness of the wide world, inspires
more frustration than poetry. which is not to advise you
against travelling-- i myself am something of a vagabond,
something of a ghost, and this much i've gained from my travels-- i can sit at a table by myself, staring across
worlds, sometimes laughing, sometimes sad and regretful. but in the very least, you've something more to look at, in your memory, than what you might have gotten the evening television broadcast, right?
and as for finding the pain that becomes poetry--
well, i'm more of the opinion that hard-work and the
hungry spirit make poetry, rather than the literal
transcription of experiental unpleasantness-- and beyond
that, i suppose there's a certain amount of luck
necessary in writing the poem that really surprises.
i used to have this theory that poetry was really about
establishing a direct form of dialogue between one
person's uncertainty, and the uncertainty of another--
i'm not sure if i really believe that any more, i'm not sure if i really believe anything about poetry, other
than that it moves me sometimes, and even i'm not exactly
sure why. anyway. enjoyed your poem; keep writing,
i think you're on a worthwhile track.
and do travel, when you have the opportunity.