48Kg by Batool Abu Aklee; Paper Crown by Heather Christle; New Cemetery by Simon Armitage; Red Carpet by Steve Malmude, edited by Miles Champion
48Kg by Batool Abu Akleen, translated by the poet
, with Graham Liddel, Wiam El-Tamami, Cristina Viti
and Yasmin Zaher
(
Tenement, £17.50
)
This remarkable debut by a 20-year-old Palestinian, born and raised in Gaza, stands out among poetry of witness on the genocide there. It contains 48 poems, each representing a kilogram of bodyweight, with the book literally thinning as the pages turn. The final poem declares: “I die without a voice. / He skins me, flesh from bones. / Cuts me into forty-eight pieces. Distributes the parts in blue plastic bags / & throws them to the four corners.” Unlike the Muses who buried Orpheus’s dismembered limbs, the poem ends with the paramedic guessing “which of these bags / contain my flesh”. Written in Gaza between 2023 and 2025, Abu Akleen’s poems disassemble and painstakingly reassemble the body to interrogate injustice, death and grief. She creates a world where absurdity and reality, irony and humanity coexist – from the ice-cream man crying out “corpses for sale” while noting that “no grave buys them”, to death wanting to have a birthday party and picking “an arm the missile hadn’t shattered”. Abu Akleen self-translated 38 of the 48 poems, describing the process of translation as making “peace with death”, while writing in Arabic meant being “torn apart without … anyone there to recollect it”. The book articulates the vital linguistic bridge she establishes in the present between Arabic and English, and includes historical photographs of Gaza from 1863 and 1908 and the 2022 discovery of a fifth-century Byzantine mosaic, highlighting the city’s rich cultural history. Throughout 48Kg Abu Akleen transforms witnessed details into fragile interpretations: the “broken plates they make homes for their younger siblings”, the “moment War became a school”, and the “Ring Finger I lend to the woman who lost / her hand and her husband”. She notes that poetry gives “a form to feelings in order to understand them”, and these heartbreaking and risk-taking poems protest with uncompromising clarity and tenderness against continuing atrocities.
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