Kalliope, pronounced kuh-LIE-uh-pee, drifts ashore from mythic Greece carrying a lyre in one hand and a passport stamped by two millennia of poets. Eldest of the nine Muses and guardian of epic verse, her very name—born of kallos “beauty” and ops “voice”—is a hymn in three bright syllables, a vox pulchra every bit as at home in Latin elegy as on today’s birth certificate. In America she keeps a low profile (fewer than 110 newborns most years) yet never blends into the background; like a solo violin, she rises above the orchestra without straining a string. Parents may shorten her to Callie or Popi when the playground whistle blows, but the full form unfurls with operatic flair, hinting at adventure, wit, and maybe the occasional grandiloquent bedtime story. Give a child this name and you hand her the quill of Homer and the microphone of Beyoncé—an irresistible duet that almost guarantees she will never sing off-key.
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