There is an old Irish Triad about poetry that has always appealed to me –it says so much about poetry, and committment to poetry, and the demand that poetry exerts upon us:
It is death to mock a poet
It is death to love a poet
It is death to be a poet
I don’t know how far back this triad goes, but I have been translating Old Irish poetry for quite some time now, and it is the early poet’s committment to poetry that has always appealed to me and that I have tried to convey.