Poem, a name that springs from the ancient Greek ποίημα (poíēma) by way of the Latin poema and ultimately our own word for a crafted verse, carries with it the rustle of parchment, the cadence of whispered lullabies, and the bright possibility that each day will be written in iambs of delight; she is, in essence, a living “carmen”—the Romans’ lyrical term for song—whose very syllables invite creativity, tenderness, and a dash of playful mischief, as if the Muses themselves had slipped a quill into the cradle. Though only a handful of families in recent American records have chosen Poem—her popularity hovering near the 900s yet quietly rising—every one of those births feels like a new stanza added to the anthology of modern names, proof that parents still believe language can hold magic. To bestow Poem upon a daughter is to wrap her in a mantle woven from sunsets and sonnets, to trust that she will stride into the world with metaphors in her pockets, and to wink at fate with the gentle humor of someone who knows that even a burp can be a heroic couplet when love provides the meter.