William Letford belongs in the grand – and humble – tradition of Robert Burns. He has heart, a feeling for ordinary working people (he is one himself – his first collection, Bevel, was about working as a roofer) and enough Scottish spark to start a fire.

Dirt will please even non-poetry readers. It is accessible and made me smile, laugh and cry – Letford wears his heart on his ragged sleeve. Not all the poems are written in Scottish vernacular but he is particularly at home in pieces such as This Is It. I had to look up “radge” (“a wild, crazy or violent person”) but, otherwise, the poem flows clearly on, an accompaniment to the busker. The sentiment he ends with – that it is the song, and the singing of it, that matters – is proved by his poetry too.

To say that Letford is down-to-earth is unusually true. Dirt, the title poem, is an intense piece that begins with the surprising wish: “I want the dust beneath the fridge to hold the DNA/of generations.” It mires itself in careful filth and, as one reads on, there is a sense that the poem itself is germinating, preparing to blossom into its last line: “Stand in the muck with me. Live amongst the flowers.”

Some pieces might seem slight but their effect is powerful. I laughed aloud at The Interview which reads like a satirical playlet. It sets a scene in which “a middle-management centaur” – explained as “half man/half desk” – is interviewing and asks “woodenly” that the interviewee describe his “positive attributes”. From this point on, the poem accelerates into an uncorked rant about greed, love and lust for life. It is very funny because of its blend of improbability and truth. The interviewee concludes: “Normal doesn’t exist so give me madness./I want it all. The whole lot. No holding back.” I hope one day Letford might write another poem to describe the centaur’s response.

Letford has been travelling in India for six months, on a Creative Scotland artist’s bursary, and this gives some of the poems a welcome hybrid flavour, a sense that he – and they – are travelling light. He is interested in people he encounters. There is a beguiling snapshot of a fellow traveller in The Grace. It is about a man with whom he drinks masala chai in a dirty cafe, whose travels have been funded by his wife as a 75th birthday present. The poem ends: “He walked like a poem stepping off a page.”

His curiosity about strangers is not at the expense of family. And the salutation to his granny in Any Way You Can is a winner. “On Friday I visit my seventy-seven-year old/granny. She’s smoking a joint. It’s not a surprise.”

I won’t spoil the fun by giving away more about his granny here. But its companion piece is the moving Monuments of the Mind in which he pictures his father and grandfather. Only gradually do you learn that neither man is alive, although “their voices are as familiar/as my own failings”. Letford’s sympathetic soul illuminates his writing throughout and although he is funny, his jokes tend to be a way of being serious.

The Bevvy is the most priceless comic turn and yet bleak – a drinking lad’s confession, told with bravado. What it will do is make you want to raise your glass to William Letford for a collection to brighten the year’s darkest months.

• Dirt by William Letford is published by Carcanet Press (£9.99). To order a copy for £8.19 go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99

This Is It, by William Letford

Skint, baw ragged, poackets ful eh ma
fingers, cannae afford tae burn toast an
it’s November, Christmas is close. Av been
away bit noo am back an ivery coarner
is a different colour cause am hame an
memories ur painted wae mischief. Am
ootside Gregs eatin a macaroni pie an a
busker picks up eez guitar an plugs in eez
amplifier. The sound fae the strings is
like frost. Eez young an the dreams thit
wur boarn in eez bedroom wake me up.
Am watchin people passin an they know
thit eez good bit they don’t want tae look.
They turn thur heeds an tilt thur ears
an jog on. If a hud a spare pound
a wid throw it bit a don’t so a jist listen.
I’d like tae tell um thit this is it, this is
where the hammer hits the stane an sparks
ur made, standin oan a coarner in yr hame
toon, an audience eh one radge eatin a
macaroni pie, bit singin, wee man, yur singin.