The problem with community, like family, is that one is always forced into a relation with it. Poetic community is a condition in which the poet finds her position mapped out for her in advance, and must negotiate constantly not only to maintain that position, but to figure a way out of it.
Even if we imagine poetic community purely as a network of resources, associations, reference points, pretexts, and contexts via which the poet is enabled to enter into productive visibility, we have already precluded an entire range of alternative possibilities for creative action at the same time that we have made such action possible. The realm of the social is predatorily defined by limits. Its limits are constitutive of its open channels, and vice versa.
The blogosphere vividly illustrates some of the pitfalls in question. The mere fact of there being hundreds of writers accessible at the touch of a keyboard at any moment--writers with whom one can actually share ideas, debate differences, generate inspiration--simultaneously results as well in the rapid formation of intense ressentiment. Hierarchies announce themselves, are disputed, contemned, reified. Rejection of hierarchies spawns new, still more vicious hierarchies.
Community is a snakepit with toddler-safe accessories.
Celebrate community? Celebrate! Celebrate a facet of our existence that is only slightly less oppressive (and slightly less necessary) than biology?
Reject community? See above.
My community is the structure whereby I am permitted to exist as a poet. My friends are what make that condition tolerable. To "prefer" friendship over community makes about as much sense as preferring the exercise yard or an extra pack of cigarettes over a 20-year-to-life prison sentence.