From one century to another
Picasso is not Monet either. Artistic movements have tended to reflect the continuing chaos into which the world falls by cutting away epidermis and exposing the guts and skeleton beneath.
Free verse is a different animal than the rhymed verses of the early 20th century. The people who bestow the Owen Award know what they are doing.
The first of Pinter's that you quoted is not to my taste, but it depicts with painful frankness the melding of the sacred and the profane with which people who call themselves Christians glory in war.
The second is not so different from the last verse of the Owen poem, following without the versed typography, and the Latin translated:
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace behind the wagon that we flung him in. And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; if you could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, my friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old Lie: It is sweet and honorable to die for the fatherland.
If you let yourself see it, that's a horrifying image, with a bitter commentary. Pinter writes for people whose inner eye has been crippled for lack of use. We are accustomed to having our world transmitted in images. He, therefore, keeps the message direct. It's the same one.