Matthew Sweeney, who has died of motor neurone disease aged 65, was one of the most adventurous, life-enhancing and distinctive poets of his gifted generation. Early on, he developed an unusual poetic approach, less concerned with traditional form than poetic fable. His stories – “imagistic narratives” as he called them in an interview – unfold like miniature films, crammed with colloquialisms. Full of often self-fulfilling anxieties, they lure the reader in with a seeming naivety, only to spring sophisticated or heart-rending surprises.

This approach allowed Matthew to access the darker areas of his imagination and to express freely what he felt was the essential loneliness of the human condition. In Cacti, the title poem of his 1992 collection, the speaker, devastated by the loss of his wife, slowly turns his flat into a desert in which the last memento he has of her, a cactus bought in Marrakesh, can flourish. As the Michigan poet Thomas Lynch had it, writing about Matthew in his 1997 memoir The Undertaking: “Loss, he figured, stalked him with its scythe.”

Matthew was born in Lifford, Co Donegal, one of four children of Clement and Josephine Sweeney. He grew up in Clonmany, a small townland on Donegal’s Inishowen peninsula, and that beautiful, bare landscape informs many of his poems. He attended Gormanston college (1965-70), and then read sciences at University College Dublin (1970-72), before kicking over the traces and heading for London. There he read English and German at the Polytechnic (now University) of North London, spending a year at the University of Freiburg, and graduating in 1978. He met Rosemary Barber in 1972 and they were married in 1979. They had two children, Nico and Malvin.

That stay in Germany and the discovery of Kafka, Huchel and Grass, together with a number of east European poets, were where it all began to go right for Matthew. But there were also influences much nearer to home, such as Louis MacNeice, Walter de la Mare, WS Graham, whose plain language and a certain strangeness of setting appealed strongly, and John Hartley Williams, his co-author on Writing Poetry and Getting Published (1997) and Death Comes for the Poets, a satirical thriller that took a long time in the writing (the writers not always in agreement) and almost as long to find a publisher (Muswell Hill Press, 2012).

For a while in the 1980s, I was his editor at Allison & Busby, and published two collections, A Round House (1983) and The Lame Waltzer (1985), in co-editions with Dermot Bolger’s Raven Arts Press. Later Matthew found a more secure berth with Robin Robertson at Secker & Warburg and then Cape. Over two decades from 1989, six collections – Blue Shoes, Cacti, The Bridal Suite, A Smell of Fish, Sanctuary and Black Moon (the last of which was shortlisted for the 2007 TS Eliot award) – appeared, each one more darkly humorous than its predecessor, the line ever more pared down, the stories starker.

As well as writing his own poetry, Matthew was a great encourager of poetry in others. The workshops he animated, and later the residencies he undertook, were famous for their geniality and seriousness and fun. Sometime in the late 1980s I attended one of these workshops in an upstairs room of a pub in Lamb’s Conduit Street, Bloomsbury, where the poems were circulated anonymously and carefully read and commented on by all. Around the pushed-together tables were Ruth Padel, Eva Salzman, Don Paterson, Maurice Riordan, Jo Shapcott, Lavinia Greenlaw, Michael Donaghy, Maura Dooley and Tim Dooley. Later Matthew would hold residencies at the University of East Anglia, the South Bank Centre in London and University College Cork.

In addition to 14 adult poetry collections, Matthew also wrote engagingly for children. Often writing directly from a child’s perspective, he articulated the strangeness of the world with fearful delight. His first such collection, The Flying Spring Onion (1992), was followed by Fatso in the Red Suit (1995); the novel The Snow Vulture (1992) by Fox (2002). With Shapcott he edited Emergency Kit: Poems for Strange Times (1996), an anthology for everybody, but especially for those reading poetry for the first time; later he edited The New Faber Book of Children’s Verse (2001); both books are still in print today.

Matthew and Rosemary separated early in the new century, and by 2001 Matthew was living in Timişoara, Romania, and then for a couple of years in Berlin. By 2008 he was back in Ireland and had met the partner of his last years, Mary Noonan.

Prolific to the end, and using his poems to fight his condition, in 2018 alone he published two new collections, My Life As a Painter (Bloodaxe) and King of a Rainy Country (Arc), inspired by Baudelaire’s posthumously published Petits Poèmes en Prose. Naturally international in outlook, his poetry has been translated into Dutch, Italian, Japanese, Latvian, Mexican Spanish, Romanian, Slovakian and, perhaps closest to his heart, two full-length collections, Rosa Milch (2002) and Hund und Mond (2017), have appeared in German, translated by the poet Jan Wagner.

Matthew will be remembered for his wit, his love of the macabre, his simultaneously oblique and direct approach to the world, and his total commitment to the art of poetry.

He is survived by Mary, Nico and Malvin.

• Matthew Gerard Sweeney, poet, born 6 October 1952; died 5 August 2018

• This article was amended on 10 August 2018 to correct the title of the book My Life As a Painter.