About this work
Tanka with brief notes recall a father’s garden, postwar hardship, fireflies and childhood encounters, linking family memory with the act of writing. This English version is an editorial translation for access; the Japanese text remains available alongside it for comparison.
Parallel reading
日本語と英語で読む
Read the Japanese original and its English translation together. On smaller screens, each language follows in sequence.
日本語原文 Japanese original
濱野成秋
父が着物姿で裏の畑。幼児の吾は
畑打つは父の着物ぞバケツ持て
水やる稚児は吾の筈なる
空襲の焼け跡にゐた父が芋畑を作る
焼け跡に佇む父が植えし背
いま芋粥を啜りて判るも
花落つるとは実のならぬことにて
花落つる又落つる花成らぬ茄子
父母の心を尺せぬ吾身か
歌会をつくること久しく思い
浪漫の歌人の会創らむと
想ひの糸にからむる糸たち
蛍籠露さへ含めば明日の日も
想ひも空し皆骸にて
蚊帳を吊りて蛍を放てば
幾匹も蛍放ちて蚊帳のなか
生きて残るは吾身ばかりか
少年の頃から手首も細くそのまま成人した吾は
か細きと友の笑へるわが手首
ペン持てキー打ちチョークを握る
生家は柱に夕陽受けたり
土壁の柱に沿ひて夕陽差す
誰おもひをり生家は今も
初夏の葉むらは郁々として
水煙の上がり立つ視ゆ糸嫩葉
華やぐ陽盛り暮れると言ふに
三和土視ゆ農家の門戸疎()ましと
想ひし幼な日罪深かりし
農家から頂けた卵ありての生き永らえではなかったか
産み立ての卵あたたか今日こそは
馳走となるらむ母の手にぎりて
（参考）
父は己が嘆きを語らぬ人であった。ゆえに他人の如くとも
父いずこ母と浸りし白浜の
湯の華匂ひ知らぬを恥ゐて
吾もまた父となりたる幾年ぞ
廻れる御代や紫陽花の咲く
（No.1931は以上）
English translation 英訳
AI-assisted English translation. The Japanese original remains authoritative.
My father in a kimono in the back field. As a child I was
Those tilling the field are my father's kimono, take a bucket.
The child watering the field should be me.
The father, who stood in the ruins of the air raids, made a sweet potato field.
The father standing in the ruins planted the rows.
Now, as I sip sweet potato porridge, I understand.
Flowers falling are not the fruit of the tree.
Flowers fall again, flowers fall, yet no fruit comes from the eggplant.
Can I not measure the hearts of my parents with a measuring rod?
I have long thought of creating a song gathering.
I wish to create the gathering of romantic songwriters.
The threads of thought entangle with the threads of others.
Putting fireflies in a bug cage and spending one night,
If the fireflies contain even the dew in the cage, then tomorrow's day will also
Have empty thoughts, all bones in the sky.
Hang up the mosquito net and release the fireflies,
As many fireflies as there are, release them into the mosquito net.
Only I remain alive.
From my boyhood, my wrists have been thin, and so I became an adult as is.
The thin wrists, the laughter of a friend on my wrist.
Hold a pen, strike the key, grip the chalk.
The birth home receives the evening sun on its pillars.
The pillars of the earthen wall receive the evening sun.
Whoever thinks of memories, the birth home is still today.
The thick foliage of early summer is dense.
The rising steam of water, the thread of sight on tender leaves.
When they say the sun is flourishing and the day is fading,
What thoughts did I have as a child?
The three-layered earth floor, the view of the farmer's gate is distant.
My childhood thoughts were deep in guilt.
Was it not the life sustained by the eggs given by the farmer?
The newly laid eggs, warm, today is the day.
They will become a feast, held in my mother's hands.
(Reference)
The father was a man who never spoke of his own sorrow. Therefore, even as a stranger,
The father, immersed with the mother in the white sand beach of Hayama,
Could not bear the scent of the bath's flowers, and felt ashamed.
I too, will become the father for how many years?
The changing ages, the blooming of the hydrangea.
(No. 1931 is above)
Original wording, author credits, notes and source materials are preserved there.