John Repp is a poet, fiction writer, essayist, and book critic.
Repp attended several universities and colleges including Penn State University, Rutgers University, and Cumberland County College. In 1977, he earned his bachelor of arts degree in literature and creative writing from Franconia College. While working toward his master of fine arts degree, he received his first publication in The Small Pond Magazine in 1979. In 1980, he finished his MFA in creative writing from Central Michigan University; he then went on to earn a second MFA in poetry from the University of Pittsburgh in 1985.
His work has been honored with many awards including a National Endowment in the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship in 1987. He has also been a recipient of many residency fellowships in artist colonies such as Yaddo and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation. His poetry has many themes including family, history, setting, friendship, music, and food.
A native of the Pine Barrens region of southern New Jersey, he has lived for many years in northwestern Pennsylvania with his wife, the visual artist Katherine Knupp, and their son, Dylan.
John Repp is another poet I wish I could force people to read! He's been at it for a long time, has published a bunch of books and chapbooks, won some good awards, and had a long teaching career. Yet he never seems to have broken out into the larger poetry audience. I will never understand these things.
This little chapbook is a series of precise memory poems about growing up in the Pine Barrens country in New Jersey. Yes, there is nostalgia in these poems, yet it is subdued, real yet not dramatic (maybe that is the reason Repp's poems earn a certain kind of admiration yet not any kind of fandom?). In this little book, he is obviously influenced by James Schuyler, and uses Schuyler poems as epigraphs to prompt his own memories. Here's how a lovely poem, "Still," ends, with Repp's memory, a quote from Schuyler, and a refusal to get overly sentimental. The poet is remembering childhood time in an old attic:
I heard voices rise from mown grass, tree frogs & crickets, huge trucks barreling past, my belly full, a wet breeze drifting through the screen. To "half wish," as Schuyler says, "to go back/
to a corner of the sloping yard." Half. Maybe less. But still--