Twas the year before tenure, when all through my office,
Were half-written manuscripts, the work of a novice.
Submitted were many, and under review,
In hopes that the editors would accept a few.
The children weren't worried, no travesty,
If tenure twasn't granted, I'd get a better job at HP.
My wife saw me through, with a reality check,
"We'll be okay, the train will not wreck."
When confidence returned, I tried myself not to flatter,
Nothing is certain, don't let your head get much fatter.
If you think it's sewn up, it could go in a flash,
All that work, all that effort. For what? Just a rash.
It's cold in December, soon we'll have snow,
Tis the day of the vote, the P & T show,
When what to my blood-shot eyes should appear,
But the tenured faculty, none showing a sneer.
With smiles so chipper, not one looking sick,
I knew in a moment, and this would be quick,
My fears would vanish, my worries the same,
I would whistle and shout and want to exclaim:
"You had me worried, with so little told,
of my chances for tenure, at this U to grow old."
I kept working, and worrying, not knowing the measure,
Of the hill I was climbing. Not seeing the treasure.
My eyes how they twinkle. My thoughts how they wander,
To concepts and topics, so difficult to ponder.
No more must I rush for the quick, trivial fix,
That will get the result with no conflicts.
I dig deep for the meaning of life and the future,
And test my ideas on other people's computers.
"The answer's not right?", I say with a smile,
"Oh well, time for coffee. Want to talk for awhile?"
To all not tenured, take heart in this verse,
Not far have I come, from my pre-tenure curse.
Overwhelming it is, to know that your fate,
Is based on work mostly, and how you relate
To the cares and concerns of your external peers,
Will they be harsh or accepting? Will they be your worst fears?
So spring to your papers, while you work give a whistle,
You department is good, not one imbicle.
Trust yourself, your choices, your peers to see well
The worth of your work, even without the Nobel.
And when an esteemed colleague, tenured no doubt,
Pretends to know all, to preach it about,
And says, "On these nails, you must stand until dark."
Wear two pairs of shoes, and make no remark.
Pre-tenureds have cried the illogic of it,
To no avail, it's here to stick.
Just know it must end, in hindsight quite quickly,
And one day you too can write poems that are sickly.