The title of the piece, “Siren Song,” is in itself a concise way of drawing out the moral or purpose of the poem. The song of the sirens is a widely known element within Greek mythology and is part of many ancient accounts; for example, Homer’s Odyssey. Fundamentally, the myth is about women, often two or three, who are half birds and half human. They live on an island with a rocky coast, and lure any sailors around into their trap by singing an irresistible melody the men follow with their ships and then crash into the rocks, trapped. In life today, the myth represents the many desires men blindly follow only to crash and be trapped, with very few ways out.

It is interesting that the narrator of the poem is one of the sirens; however, she is unlike the typical siren because she is not content with what she does and is looking for a way out of it. In the piece, her dislike for her position is shown in a somewhat comical manner when she states “I don’t enjoy it here/squatting on this island/looking picturesque and mythical” (lines 13-15), and proceeds to saying “I don’t enjoy singing” (27). The picture created by these descriptions is one of a “girl” squatted on the shore of an island, bored and discontented with her life and daily duties. In addition, the enjambment in the narration turns the poem into a one-person dialogue and puts pauses within sentences where the narrator would have paused to regain her thoughts if it were a monologue in a real life setting. Another important fact is that almost the poem is divided into stanzas that are composed of one periodic sentence and each line a loose sentence that portray the thought process of the narrator while speaking and convey a clear idea only when read as a complete sentence from the start to the period.

By the repetitive use of the word throughout the poem, it is notable that a key element is the song, written six times. The song represents in the story the bait sirens use to attract men to them and, consequently, destroy them; however, it is also a symbol of the many different factors in life that cover their true identity with a veil so attractive that anyone who sees it is drawn into it to his ruin. In Atwood’s work, the narrator tells the reader about the song and also warns about its destructiveness mentioning the “beached skulls” (6) and how “anyone who has heard it is dead” (9), but at the same time, proving its effectiveness. The enjambment of the lines and the unique division of stanzas builds curiosity and anticipation in the mind of the reader, drawing him to the end of the poem where the ambiguity of this “song” would be clarified. In this way, the reader falls prey to the siren’s bait, who well acquainted of all this, states “it is a boring song/but it works every time” (26-27). By saying this, the narrator expresses the simplicity of the song and the stupidity and unawareness of men who are trapped by it “every time.”

The structure of poems, allusions and the title are often factors that are more influential than even the words itself because they set the flow, the rhythm of how the piece is to be read and portrayed. In this way, Margaret Atwood was able to convey the idea of vanities in life drawing people straight to their destruction by the metaphorical comparison to a siren.

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So fair. Sweet angel of
the air, I beg her take heed.
I care. Is that not enough?

A prayer for a hand-and-glove
affair. On my knees I plead
to share my life in love.

Please spare a glance from above
to flair hope that I’ll succeed
to share my life in love.

Beware. My mind warns thereof
the snare to make my heart bleed.
I care. Is that not enough?

Despair. Like a mourning dove
midair, away my heart will speed.
I care. Is that not enough
to share my life in love?

Enjambment is a distinguishing characteristic of poetry, not because every poem has enjambing lines--it need not--but because the line is what distinguishes poems from prose and enjambment directly operates on the line.

The poet's bible provides a clinically correct definition of enjambment (p. 359): Nonalignment of (end of) metrical frame and syntactic period at line-end: the overflow into the following poetic line of a syntactic phrase (with its intonational contour) begun in the preceding line without a major pause or juncture. The opposite of end-stopped.

In other words, enjambment is a line break that interrupts the "intonational contour" of the poem for some (presumably) important aesthetic end. Whether the effect is or is not important will, of course, be subjective. But, in most cases, it's fairly easy to spot it when it fails or when it works. I'll illustrate that point with two examples of enjambment.

First example (complete):
I bought some shoes and then I put them on
My feet and took a walk and they felt good.

Second example (excerpt):
... now conscience wakes despair
That slumbered, wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.

In each of the examples, the enjambed line satisfies the technical requirement. Each provokes a kind of surprise, a recognition of having been tricked by the poet. What of it?

In the first example, "I put them on" would be enough for surface meaning, and the suddenly subsequent "My feet" does create a surprise. Does it work? Not really. Leaning in to the enjambment is the monotonous (but correct) iambic pentameter, and, after the enjambment, merely more the same. No follow through, and the enjambment hardly seems worth it. The poem does not seem to be affected in any way by the enjambment, and the device affects nothing. In this case, the enjambment disrupts nothing.

The second example has each line enjambed, but culminates in the stunning break between lines 3 and 4. Also supporting the effect are the lines' alliterations and repetitions: wakes-wakes, what-what-what, then worse-worse-worse. The enjambment produces not just a surprise, but the sense that the ground has fallen away from under our feet, and the final word "ensue" seems to increase the velocity. There is no turning back.

The trick in the second example here is surely the poet's subtle dropping of the subject "he" in the enjambing line which we only seem to pick up after the break, and, by then, it's too late.

If you're thinking "straw poem" you're right. The first example is from the Ciardi's and Williams' book on poetry where it is appears as an illustration of lame enjambment. The second example is selected from early in Book IV of Milton's Paradise Lost (ll. 23-26). If you're jazzed by that second example, you might want to read the text from the start of Book IV. There, Milton uses a series of enjambments (no one of them as spectacular as the selection) to create a texture which allows the lines cited here to explode off the page. Indeed, Paradise Lost is a paradise of enjambed blank verse lines.

So, enjambment is not necessary to make a poem, nor is it sufficient. The well-placed enjambment works with other elements of a poem and can, as in PL, produce the lift we call art.

Enjambment seems like an "off the page" phenomenon. It's not clear that is the case. For example, enjambment appears in Homeric and early Latin verse which was more likely to have been heard, than read. Ultimately, enjambment is a sound effect.

How should representations of poems in the new media convey the enjambing lines? The cinematic analogue to poetic enjambment might be classic (or horizontal) montage. We'll look at some examples in coming posts. Meanwhile, I'd love to hear about your most memorable moments of divine enjambment.